Meet Me at Midnight Page 3

  “I don’t want them out of my sight—or my reach.” Dropping back into his chair, Sinclair gestured at a jacket laid out on the large, rumpled bed. “And I am not wearing that blue monstrosity to call on my future father-in-law.”

  “It’s conservative.”

  “Exactly. He might approve it, and then where would I be? Get me the beige and cream.”

  “You’ll look like a rake.”

  “I am a rake, you idiot. And I have no intention of letting Stiveton forget that for one damned minute.”

  He pulled out the letter and opened it, stifling a grin as he caught the valet’s disgruntled expression in the dressing mirror. Swiftly he perused the contents and then sank back, scowling. First the ton was trying to foist a surprise wedding on him, and now this. When bad news came to call, it always seemed to bring company.

  “Fine. Call me an idiot if you want,” the valet grumbled from the dressing closet. “But you’re the one got trapped into marrying Vixen Fontaine, on his first proper jaunt back in London.”

  “I didn’t get trapped into anything. I made a point with Marley.” He couldn’t even say the bastard’s name without growling.

  “And the marriage?”

  “That was just my way of avoiding being stoned and run out of London.”

  “Ah.”

  “‘Ah’ yourself. No father in his right mind would allow his daughter to marry me. Everyone’s simply laboring under the misconception that I’d be safer if I were leg-shackled to some poor female.” Sinclair read the letter once more, looking for any hopeful sign. “Bates sends his greetings, by the by.”

  “He’d better. He owes me ten quid, that lad does.” Finally the proper clothes appeared on the bed, and the valet sauntered back to the dressing table. “Who’s Lady Stanton, anyway?”

  “Some dowager living in Scotland. Wally’s great great twice removed or something.”

  “Sounds safe enough.”

  Sinclair eyed him. “I’d like to think I’m not completely incompetent. And your ten quid is on the way to London, since you asked.”

  The valet sobered. “Bates didn’t find anything?”

  “No. I didn’t expect him to, but one can always hope, I suppose. Wally and Crispin are meeting up with him. We’ll regroup here. They’re letting a house on Weigh House Street. Or Lady Stanton is, rather.”

  He handed the missive to the valet, who scanned through it much as Sinclair had.

  “Well, I’m glad Crispin’s coming, anyway,” Roman said. “Maybe he can talk some sense into you before you do end up married.”

  “I’m the Marquis of Althorpe now. I will need to marry eventually, if only for Thomas’s sake.” And whatever he decided, the thought of having Vixen Fontaine in his bed was considerably arousing. Given Marley’s taste in females, he’d expected a hoyden—not a goddess. Those long, curling eyelashes…

  “I know, I know. But everyone in London thinks you’re…you know…him. And him shouldn’t be taking a bride—not even a wild one like the Vixen.”

  With a snort, Sinclair recaptured the letter and crumpled it, tossing it into the dying embers of the fireplace. “I am him, and there isn’t going to be a marriage right now. Don’t complicate things.”

  The valet folded his arms across his chest and glowered. “You’re the one complicating things, Sin. You can’t even live in your own house without the servants thinking you’re—”

  Sinclair glared back at him. “For the last time, Roman, I am him. Nothing has changed since France or Prussia or Italy except the target du jour. Stop making me defend my poor character.”

  “But that is not—”

  “Leave be.”

  “All right, my lord.” Roman grabbed up the shaving bowl and dumped the contents into the chamber pot. “If you want everyone to think you’re a blasted blackguard instead of a hero, and you want to marry an earl’s high-flying daughter to keep your disguise, that’s your affair. If—”

  Sin pushed to his feet. “I am here to find my brother’s murderer, Roman. The damned Crown may have kept me lurking about the Continent for the past five years, but Bonaparte’s finished now, and so am I. I will keep the disguise, though, for as long as it serves me. Is that clear?”

  The valet heaved a breath. “Clear as glass.”

  “Good.” Sinclair favored him with a slight grin. “And don’t go about calling me a hero. You’ll ruin everything.”

  Roman folded his arms across his chest. “Well, I’d hate to do that now, wouldn’t I?”

  “You cannot be serious!”

  “I have never been more serious, Victoria.” The Earl of Stiveton paced around and around the couch in the middle of the library, his footsteps so heavy that they rattled the glass doors of the display cabinet at the far end of the room. “How many escapades were we supposed to overlook? How much outrageous behavior did you think we could ignore?”

  “More than this.”

  “Victoria!”

  Victoria lay supine on the couch, one arm flung across her brow in her best dramatic pose of helpless vulnerability. “It was just a stupid kiss! For heaven’s sake, Father.”

  “You kissed Sinclair Grafton in a completely…intimate manner. You let him put his hands all over you. In public. I cannot—I will not—tolerate this any longer.”

  Hmm, she’d used the same vulnerable pose last week. It hadn’t worked then, either, and she’d ended up housebound for three long days. Victoria sat up. “So you’re making me marry him? That seems a bit severe. I’ve kissed other men, and you haven’t—”

  “Enough!” Stiveton clapped his hands over his ears. “You shouldn’t have kissed anyone. But this time, Victoria, you were caught—in the arms of a complete scapegrace, and in the presence of a crowd.”

  “An exceptionally stodgy crowd.”

  “Victoria!”

  “But—”

  “No more explanations, and no more excuses. Unless he’s fled the country by now, you will marry Lord Althorpe, and you will face the consequences of your actions.”

  “Haven’t you ever done anything just for fun?” she pleaded.

  “Fun is for children,” he said stiffly. “You are twenty years old. It’s time you became a wife—and it now becomes a question of who else would have you.”

  He stalked out of the room, heading straight for his office. There he would wait until Althorpe arrived, and then he would bargain her off to the infamous blackguard, just so he wouldn’t have to put up with her high spirits any longer.

  Victoria sighed and flopped back down on the couch again. Ten hours should have been more than enough time to convince him of how unwise he was being, and of what a ridiculous match this would be for everyone concerned. Of course she’d stepped too far; she was always doing that. Her parents should expect it by now.

  “I am not getting married!” she yelled at the ceiling.

  It didn’t reply.

  Of all the punishments her parents could devise, this was the absolute worst. In one more year she would come into her majority and be able to travel and aid whatever cause she saw fit. Once she married, that money would go to Sinclair Grafton, and he would no doubt lose every blasted bit at the gaming tables before she could do anything useful with it at all.

  Yes, he was handsome, and yes, he’d made her pulse fly when he kissed her. That, though, was no reason for her to marry him. She didn’t even know anything about him, except for the rumors of his terrible reputation. Her parents couldn’t want her to be leg-shackled to someone like that. They couldn’t think she deserved someone like that.

  Victoria pounded the soft cushions of the couch in frustration. Her only hope was that the idea of marriage horrified Althorpe as much as it did her. Perhaps he had already left for Europe or parts unknown. She shut her eyes, then realized she was slowly tracing her lips with one finger. With an oath, she shot to her feet. One did not marry a man simply because he kissed with the skill of Eros. One married a man because he was kind and intelligent and u
nderstanding and supportive, and didn’t expect his wife to be nothing but a pretty picture who embroidered and had tea parties all day long. She wasn’t that kind of woman, and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—be that kind of wife.

  Sinclair hopped down from his phaeton and climbed the shallow marble front steps of Fontaine House. He’d debated whether to call on Lord Stiveton or not, and decided that the Sin Grafton everyone knew would have—with some excuse as to why the marriage was impossible.

  From what he knew, the earl was as dull and plodding as a wet sheep, but no fool. While Stiveton’s coming to his senses and whisking his daughter away would solve one problem, though, it would leave at least two more.

  First, he’d gone too far last night. Lady Vixen Fontaine had seemed likely to know something of Marley’s possible involvement in a murder, but he hadn’t exactly gotten around to questioning her about it. He’d been too busy ogling the splendid black-haired chit and enjoying the fact that he’d stolen her from her beau. Beaux, actually. If he had behaved that carelessly in France, he would never have survived Bonaparte.

  Whatever the Vixen’s reputation, though, his was worse—and if he hadn’t stepped in with his marriage offer, the Franton soiree would have been both the first and the last gathering to which anyone invited him. And whatever he thought of proper society, he had to have access to it—at least long enough to prove whether Marley or one of the rest of them had killed his brother.

  Of course Stiveton wouldn’t agree to the marriage. But the earl had to accept an apology sincere enough that it would keep Sinclair in the ton’s good graces until he didn’t need them any longer.

  The second problem was nearly as troubling. Last night he had gone completely insane. Vixen Fontaine had batted her lovely violet eyes at him, and he had forgotten not only his suspicions about Marley, but also those about Lord William Landry and every other possible suspect lurking among her gaggle of admirers.

  He hadn’t maneuvered her out to the gardens so he could question her; he’d done it so he could kiss her. And if her father and the rest of the gawkers hadn’t discovered them, he wouldn’t have stopped with kisses. He’d been in low company for too long. And, damn it all, he wanted to kiss her again, and to complete the intimate little interlude they’d begun.

  Sinclair took a deep breath and swung the brass knocker against the door. Less than a heartbeat later, the heavy oak barrier swung open.

  “Lord Althorpe?” the short, round butler queried, taking in his choice of attire with the expected degree of disdain.

  Sinclair ignored it. “Where might I find Lord Stiveton?”

  The butler stepped backward. “In the study, my lord. This way.”

  He followed the butler’s clicking heels down the short hallway to a small office tucked under the staircase. The Fontaine family was an old, wealthy, and well-respected one, and he could imagine how deep an offense he’d shown them by manhandling their daughter. Better the likes of him than a cold-blooded murderer like Marley, though. If it had been Marley who shot Thomas. His life seemed to have become a series of “ifs” and “hows” over the past two years, and he was damned tired of not having the answers.

  The earl was seated behind a mahogany desk, looking more like a banker than a nobleman. A ledger lay open in front of him, but despite his appearance Sin doubted he’d been doing much accounting this morning. Stiveton looked up as the two men stepped into the room.

  “Althorpe. I thought you might have fled the country by now.”

  “Good morning, Lord Stiveton. Sorry to disappoint you.”

  The earl narrowed his eyes. “Timms, we are not to be disturbed.”

  The butler bowed as he pulled the door shut. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Acting contrite now doesn’t excuse your actions last night, Althorpe.” Stiveton laid his hands flat against the desktop.

  Sinclair shrugged. “My actions last night cannot be excused.”

  “Agreeing with me won’t do you any good, either. How many times have you behaved in some disreputable manner and then escaped without censure?”

  Sin lifted an eyebrow. “Do you want an exact count?”

  “Whatever liberties you may have taken on the Continent, we do not tolerate such behavior here.”

  “With all due respect, Lord Stiveton, I may have led, but your daughter followed willingly enough.”

  The earl slammed to his feet. “This is how you beg for forgiveness?”

  Sinclair flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. “I’m not begging for anything, Lord Stiveton. I am at your service. I have a suggestion, but do what you will.”

  Still glaring, Stiveton slowly seated himself again. “Were you expecting me to challenge you to a duel, so I could defend Victoria’s honor?”

  “Of course not. That would mean my killing you. I was thinking more of your demanding a public apology, and me rendering one.”

  “That might bandage your reputation, but it wouldn’t do anything for my daughter’s.”

  As the mantel clock struck the quarter hour, the earl continued to gaze at him speculatively. Sinclair didn’t like the thoughtful expression nor the direction the conversation seemed to be headed, but kept his silence. Stiveton obviously had some solution in mind.

  Finally the earl leaned forward, folding his hands over the ledger. “As much as I would like to state otherwise, the events of last night were not entirely your fault.”

  That sounded promising. “We agree, then, that an apology would suff—”

  “Just a moment, Althorpe. I’m not finished. My daughter has an unfortunate lack of self-control. I had hoped proper schooling and discipline would cure her of her impulsiveness, but as you…experienced, this is not the case.”

  Sin dropped unbidden into the uncomfortable gilded chair that faced the desk. At this point he’d thought to hear Vixen’s reputation defended and his own further besmirched. That wasn’t the case, and, uncharacteristically, he had to stop himself from coming to her defense. After all, for the past five years he’d been luring people into saying and doing things they’d rather not. She hadn’t had much of a chance; he hadn’t given her one. Abruptly Sinclair realized Stiveton was glaring at him again, so he assumed an intrigued expression. “And?” he prompted.

  “And so if I cannot curb her behavior, I will take steps to see that the scandal resulting from it is diverted away from my household. To be blunt, she is now your problem.”

  Sinclair blinked. “You don’t actually want her to marry…me.”

  “I told you, I do not condone this reprehensible lack of propriety, even in members of my own family. Especially in members of my own family.” Stiveton picked up a pencil. “I’ll settle ten thousand pounds on her now, and three thousand a year for another year, when she turns twenty-one and comes into her grandmother’s inheritance. I imagine now that you’re back in London, you’ll be going through your family’s fortune in no time.”

  Sin’s mind raced. Obviously he’d miscalculated. The earl didn’t seem to realize how sordid his reputation was if he actually intended the marriage. “I continue to be astounded by your generosity. Your daughter and ten thousand pounds.”

  “And all scandal gone from my house. That is what I’m paying for.”

  “Lord Stiveton, whatever you may say now, you must be aware that any bachelor peer in London would consider your daughter an acceptable bride, once I apologize. Are you certain you—”

  “Perhaps they would, but she won’t have any of them. This, she has no choice in. The wedding will take place one week from Saturday. I’ve already sent a note to Prince George. We’ll have Westminster Cathedral.”

  Apparently the earl didn’t want to risk giving either of the wedding participants time to make an escape. “The Regent will be attending then, I presume?”

  “Given the importance of the two families involved, I assure you that he will be.”

  “And your daughter is in agreement about this?” Sin asked skeptically.

&n
bsp; “Of course she isn’t in agreement. But she should have thought of that before she…fell into your embrace in such a public setting.”

  “I—”

  “Understand this, Althorpe.” The earl tapped the pencil on his desk. “Over the past three years I have suggested at least two dozen possible husbands to her, and I have given her ample time to ‘fall in love’ with any one of them, which was her stipulation before making a marriage. Instead of making a choice, she has gadded about London breaking hearts, ruining her own and my reputation, and swearing that she will have nothing to do with the idea of marriage. They call her the Vixen, you know.”

  “I’d heard something about that.”

  The earl leaned forward again. “Don’t mistake me, Althorpe; I find your behavior deplorable.”

  “You’ve made your opinion quite clear.” Sinclair felt as though he’d just lost his last bishop and his queen in a chess match he hadn’t even realized he’d been playing. And now he was about to be mated—literally. He’d been badly outmaneuvered, but surprisingly, he wasn’t quite as horrified as he’d thought to be. All he had to do was concede defeat, and bedding Lady Vixen Fontaine would be his consolation prize. Beyond that—well, he’d never had much faith in tomorrows; he’d always left that to Thomas.

  “However,” Stiveton continued, “you have provided me with the opportunity to see Victoria married into an old, well-regarded family, your own black behavior notwithstanding.”

  “So glad to be of service,” Sin replied sardonically.

  “Wait here.” Stiveton pushed to his feet. “I’ll send your bride in to see you.”

  Sin wasn’t all that certain he wanted to see her. As attractive as his prize was, he didn’t like being cornered. But, short of leaving England and abandoning his search, he was going to have to marry Lady Vixen Fontaine. He slouched in the straight-backed chair.

  It was his own bloody fault, really. He scowled. He’d been a damned fool, and now Stiveton was using his momentary lapse of sanity to rid the Fontaines of their own scapegrace.

  For his family’s sake he had meant to marry, after he’d found Thomas’s murderer and dealt with him. Not now, though, and not to someone he didn’t know and didn’t trust. This was going to complicate things, and he didn’t need any more blasted complications right now. “Damnation.”