Page 2 of Unmasked by the Marquess
Alistair was only warming to the topic, though. “If I were to acknowledge all my father’s bastards I’d have to start a charitable foundation. There would be opera dancers and housemaids lined up down the street.”
At this she turned back to face him. “You do your father an injustice. He was not a man of temperate desires, but he and I shared a life together from the moment we met until he died.”
“I feel certain both your husband and my mother were touched to discover that the two of you had such an aptitude for domestic felicity, despite all appearances to the contrary.” Mr. Allenby had been discarded as surely as Alistair’s mother had been.
Was that pity that crossed the woman’s face? “As I said, I’m truly sorry to have bothered you today.” She sighed. “Gilbert is a regular visitor at my house. I mention that not to provoke you but only to suggest that if you’re determined not to acknowledge the connection, you ought to bring your brother under bridle.”
She dropped a small curtsy that didn’t seem even slightly ironic, and left Alistair alone in his library. He felt uncomfortable, vaguely guilty, but he knew perfectly well that he had behaved properly. His father had devoted his life to squandering money and tarnishing his name by any means available to him: cards, horses, women, bad investments. And he had left the mess to be cleaned up by his son. Alistair, at least, would leave the family name and finances intact for future generations.
He paced to the windows and began pulling back the rest of the curtains. It annoyed him to admit that Mrs. Allenby had been right about anything, but the room really was too dark. He had been working too hard, too long, but even now with all the curtains opened, the room was still gloomy. The late winter sun had sunk behind the row of houses on the opposite side of Grosvenor Square, casting only a thin, pallid light into the room. He went to the hearth to poke the fire back to life.
His plan had been to double check the books and then go out for a ride, but the hour for that had come and gone. He could dress and take an early dinner at his club, perhaps. Even though the Season had not quite started, there were enough people in town to make the outing worthwhile. It was never a bad idea for Alistair to show his face and remind the world that this Marquess of Pembroke, at least, did not spend his evenings in orgies of dissipation.
As he tried not to think of the debauchery these walls had contained, there came another apologetic cough from the doorway.
“Another caller, my lord,” Hopkins said. “A young gentleman.”
Alistair suppressed a groan. This was the outside of enough. “Send him up.” He inwardly prayed that the caller wasn’t an associate of Gilbert’s, some shabby wastrel Alistair’s younger brother had lost money to at the gambling tables. He glanced at the card Hopkins had given him. Robert Selby. The fact that the name rang no bells for him did nothing to put his mind at ease.
But the man Hopkins ushered into the library didn’t seem like the sort of fellow who frequented gambling hells. He looked to be hardly twenty, with sandy hair that hung a trifle too long to be à la mode and clothes that were respectably, but not fashionably, cut.
“I’m ever so grateful, my lord.” The young man took a half step closer, but seemed to check his progress when he noticed Alistair’s expression. “I know what an imposition it must be. But the matter is so dashed awkward I hardly wanted to put it to you in a letter.”
It got worse and worse. Matters too awkward to be put in letters inevitably veered toward begging or blackmail. Alistair folded his arms and leaned against the chimneypiece. “Go on,” he ordered.
“It’s my sister, you see. Your father was her godfather.”
Alistair jerked to attention. “My father was your sister’s godfather?” He was incredulous. There could hardly have been any creature on this planet less suited to be an infant’s godparent than the late Lord Pembroke. “He went to church?” Really, the image of his father leaning over the baptismal font and promising to be mindful of the baby’s soul was something Alistair would make a point of recalling the next time his spirits were low.
“I daresay he did, my lord,” Selby continued brightly, as if he had no idea of the late marquess’s character. “I was too young to remember the event, I’m afraid.”
“And what can you possibly require of me, Mr. Selby?” Alistair did not even entertain the possibility that Selby was here for the pleasure of his company. “Not an hour ago I refused to help a person with a far greater claim on the estate than you have.”
The fellow had the grace to blush, at least. “My sister and I have no claim on you at all. It’s only that I’m in quite a fix and I don’t know who else to turn to. She’s of an age where I need to find her a husband, but...” His voice trailed off, and he regarded Alistair levelly, as if deciding whether he could be confided in. Presumptuous. “Well, frankly, she’s too pretty and too trusting to take to Bath or Brighton. She’d marry someone totally unsuitable. I had thought to bring her to London, where she would have a chance to meet worthier people.”
Alistair retrieved his spectacles from his coat pocket and carefully put them on. This Selby fellow didn’t seem delusional, but he was speaking like a madman. “That’s a terrible plan.”
“Well, now I know that, my lord.” He smiled broadly, exposing too many teeth and creating an excess of crinkles around his eyes. Alistair suddenly wished that there was enough light to get a better look at this lad. “We’ve been here a few weeks and it’s all too clear that the connections I made at Cambridge aren’t enough to help Louisa. She needs better than that.” He shot Alistair another grin, as if they were in on the same joke.
Alistair opened his mouth to coolly explain that he could not help Mr. Selby’s sister, no matter how good her looks or how bad her circumstances. But he found that he couldn’t quite give voice to any of his usual crisp denials. “Have you no relations?”
“None that suit the purpose, my lord,” Selby said frankly. This Mr. Selby had charming manners, even when he met with disappointment. Alistair would give him that much—it would have been a relief to see Gilbert develop such pleasant ways instead of his usual fits of sullenness. “Our parents died some years ago,” Selby continued. “We brought an elderly aunt with us, but we grew up in quite a remote part of Northumberland, and if we have any relations in London, we’ve never heard of them.”
Northumberland? Now, what the devil could Alistair’s father have been doing in Northumberland? Quite possibly he had gotten drunk at a hunt party in Melton Mowbray and simply lost his way home, leaving a string of debauched housemaids and misbegotten children in his wake.
That made something else occur to Alistair. “There’s no suggestion that your sister is my father’s natural child?”
“My—good heavens, no.” Selby seemed astonished, possibly offended by the slight to his mother’s honor. “Certainly not.”
Thank God for that, at least. Alistair leaned back against the smooth stone of the chimneypiece, regarding his visitor from behind half-closed lids. Even though there was nothing about Selby that seemed overtly grasping, here he was, grasping nonetheless. There was no reason for this man, charming manners and winning smile, to be in Alistair’s library unless it was to demand something.
“If you want my advice, take her to Bath.” He pushed away from the wall and stepped towards his visitor. Selby was a few inches shorter than Alistair and much slighter of build. Alistair didn’t need to use his size to intimidate—that was what rank and power were for—but this wasn’t about intimidation. It was about proximity. He wanted a closer look at this man, so he would take it.
Selby had tawny skin spotted with freckles, as if he were accustomed to spending a good deal of time outside. His lips were a brownish pink, and quirked up in a questioning sort of smile, as if he knew what exactly Alistair was about.
Perhaps he did. Interesting, because Alistair hardly knew himself.
Alistair dropped his voice. “Better yet, go home. London is a dangerous place for a girl without connections.” He dropped his voice lower still, and leaned in so he was speaking almost directly into Selby’s ear. “Or for a young man without scruples.” The fellow smelled like lemon drops, as if he had a packet of sweets tucked into one of his pockets.
