Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 91
“Oh,” Marce sighed, allowing Ellie to speak at her own pace.
“Yes, it was addressed to a Peter Davis, Lord Chastain and seventh Marquis of Drake.”
“My goodness.” Marce kept quiet when the housekeeper arrived, wheeling a tea cart into the room. It didn’t pass Ellie’s notice that five delicate cups adorned the tray. “Thank you, Darla. Please tell the girls—“
Whatever Marce had meant to say would not be known for Marce’s three younger siblings bounced into the room, the twins’ arms clasped as they giggled while their school-aged youngest sister followed—a dour look upon her delicate, fair-skinned face.
“I most certainly do not turn red as a rose petal at the sight of him!” Payton, a medium-height brunette whined as she crossed her arms and glared at her older sisters. “I don’t even know his name—plus, he’s nothing more than a stable boy!”
Ellie was instantly alert to their thread of conversation—for she and Payton were mere months apart in age, which meant...
“No man, whether he be servant or proper lord, will take a whining ninny to wife,” Marce scolded. “Now, the pair of you need stop teasing your sister.”
Sam and Jude managed a contrite look for Marce’s benefit. The pair, along with Payton, couldn’t look less like siblings. Payton, her dark hair and light complexion, was the polar opposite of Marce’s blonde locks and olive-toned skin. And in the middle, Sam and Jude had hair of the deepest auburn—Ellie was regularly envious of the shade, for her own was as bright as a flame. Marce’s sisters were a sheltered lot of misses, kept far from the many sorted things that transpired at Craven House.
“Hello, E,” Payton greeted. “Lovely dress.”
Ellie looked down at her frock, hints of dirt clinging to the delicate fabric. She really must remember to don her riding cloak before leaving the house in a huff. “Thank you, it is the first sent from the modiste.”
“It suits your coloring,” Marce chimed in as Payton moved to a seat close to the fire, dropping into it, her sulking continuing.
Ellie had tried to like the girl, but despite their close ages, they were very different. Payton had been coddled by her mother—and then her sisters—her entire life, while Ellie had been thrown to the wolves—or wolf, singular—not long after her birth.
“You agree with us, don’t you, Ellie?” Sam called as she took over her sister’s hosting duties and poured four cups of tea, with nary a drop on the intricately embroidered cloth below. “Payton has an eye for your stable boy.”
Ellie gave herself away when she looked between Payton and her sisters, astounded by Sam’s revelation—wondering if it were possible that Alex felt the same for Payton. A spike of jealously lanced through her. The brunette wasn’t a striking beauty like her eldest sister, but she would be considered stately and demure—except for her incessant whining.
“Now, stop that at once,” Marce cut in before Ellie questioned the girl further. “Ellie was just telling me about a missive she received today.”
Ellie really didn’t want to speak about the letter before everyone, but with four pairs of eyes trained on her, she saw little option, for Marce would likely cancel her evening until Ellie spilled all the news.
Suddenly, the room was overly crowded and too warm for her liking. “I was telling Marce that a letter arrived today, addressed to a Peter Davis, the Marquis of Drake.” She wrung her hands before her, taking a step away from the burning hearth behind her and slipping her fingers inside her apron to retrieve the missive. “So, I guess it is official and the newest marquis should be arriving in short order to throw me out with the rubbish.”
“What did the letter say?” Jude called in her singsong voice, the only thing that helped tell the twins apart.
“Do not keep us in suspense,” Sam said, her voice deep, earthy. “We must know all the sordid details at once." Both girls leaned forward on the lounge with their chins perched on their palms, tea forgotten.
“I haven’t read it.” Though the missive had been burning a hole in her apron pocket since it arrived. She hadn’t planned to tell anyone of its arrival, but it was too late for that now—she now held the letter tightly in her hand.
All three women gasped as if they were viewing a drama upon a stage and the playwright had destined the lead to perish in a vile, painful, drawn-out death.
“Do not act so,” Ellie demanded. “It is only a silly letter. For all it is worth, I could burn the thing now…as if it were never delivered.” She turned back to the blazing fire in the hearth, ready to toss the letter into its burning embrace.
How easy would it be to be rid of the unread letter, and go on as she’d been for the last year?
“Ellington, do not be so hasty.” Marce reached around and tugged the envelope from her fingers. Her position at Ellie’s side caught her off guard, as she hadn’t noticed the woman leave her seat. “There is much for you to consider.”
“Like where I shall lay my head—in your stables, or beg for lodging from Ruby? Or maybe I can solicit one of the many workhouses in Cheapside. But most of all, who is this man?” Her hands were still outstretched before her, her fingers poised as if she clutched the envelope, now safely in Marce’s possession. “It is very likely I will be relegated to the poorhouse in a fortnight’s time.”
“Do calm down with the dramatics,” Marce said, regaining her seat. “Nothing is ever so dire. Besides, I am certain our stables are well equipped for a new tenant.”
Ellie whipped around to face the woman she’d always viewed above all others. “You would…” She let her words trail off at the smile beaming back at her.
“Do not be silly, my girl,” Marce confided. “You are much too disagreeable to burden my livestock with. You will drive them mad within a day, I suspect.”
The room filled with Sam, Jude, and Payton’s laughter, their voices blending into a melody of sorts. Again, Ellie’s envious nature threatened to take over. These four women—sharing a mother, but different fathers—knew the bonds of blood were strong. They lived together, laughed together…and loved one another. It had her pondering the notion of throwing herself at Ruby’s mercy and requesting a place to live—maybe, just maybe, they could forge a similar bond.
Unfortunately, that would give her elder sister an increased amount of control over Ellie—and certainly her comings and goings. It was something she’d given no one; the marquis had thought he controlled her, kept her securely under his thumb, but he’d been mistaken in the extreme.
Her sister would certainly revel in the fact that she’d been raised as the daughter of a baron, given the love and attention Ellie had had withheld from her by their father. A constant reminder of what Ellie would never have—a happy home.
“Of course, we shall burn the evidence, but we’ll know what it says before we do.” Ellie was helpless to do anything, as Marce slipped her finger between the folds of paper and opened the envelope, crushing Ellie’s hopes of burning the letter and being able to pretend nothing had changed.
“Please tell us we finally learn who this mystery man is,” Ellie mumbled.
Clearing her throat and shaking the creases from the parchment, Marce started to read.
* * *
Peter Davis, Duke Chastain, and the seventh Marquis of Drake,
I apologize for my absence this past year. My father, the fifth Marquis of Drake’s solicitor, fell ill some time ago, which required my full attention. My assistant was instructed to handle your finances while I was away and await your call. I am inquiring now as to a convenient time for my lord and I to meet with you to review the estate ledgers and make a plan for your future investments.
James Adams
* * *
No one said a word as Marce inspected the letter a final time, re-folded it, and slipped it back into its creamy white envelope.
“Ah, this is not as dire as I feared,” Marce sighed in relief.
“How can you say that?” Ellie asked. Her heart beat rapidly at the thought of a solicitor showing up on her—no, correction, the seventh Marquis of Drake’s—doorstep and demanding an audience. He obviously thought the newest marquis had been notified of his inheritance and had taken his rightful place at Drake House. “I am possibly days away from being without a home.”
Marce’s siblings only looked to her, each trusting their sister’s ability to handle any situation.
“It is simple,” the blonde said matter-of-factly, “We will find someone to pose as the new Marquis of Drake, set up a meeting, and then allow the newest lord to retire to the country for an extended stay.” She sat a bit taller as her sisters looked on in wonder.
But it was only Ellie who voiced her doubt—or possibly, she was the only one sane enough to have doubts. “That will never work. How do we not know that the solicitor is not previously acquainted with Peter Davis?”
“How do you know that he is?” Marce questioned. And she was correct, Ellie didn’t know for certain if the solicitor and Davis had met previously. Nor was the solicitor’s name familiar to her. Her father hadn’t conducted business at his London townhouse, and truly, Ellie had never wondered overmuch about his finances or business dealings. “We do not know anything about this solicitor, the newest marquis, or their past meetings or correspondence. If any.”
Sam and Jude shook their heads in unison.
Payton stared into the hearth, having lost interest in Ellie’s dilemma at some point.
“What is our plan?” Jude asked.
“Yes, how can we help?” Sam echoed. From what Ellie had noticed, the twins had taken to switching places lately—and did a fine job of mimicking one another.
“You will do nothing,” Marce stated. Both the girls whined in protest at being left out of what they deemed as fun. “I will not involve the three of you in this matter. Now, go prepare for supper while Ellie and I chat.”
The twins huffed but obeyed their sister, standing and making their way to the door, their long, auburn hair trailing down their backs unrestrained.
“Payton?” Marce snapped her fingers to gain the girl’s attention. “Heavens, I do not know what has gotten into you lately. If you keep daydreaming away the hours, I’ll start to think you do have a tender for this boy.”
Payton pushed to her feet and sulked from the room, much as she’d entered it.
Ellie sat on the lounge the twins had vacated and waited for Marce to speak—hoping she did indeed have a plan…and one that would not see her sleeping in the Craven House stables.
“All we need find is a man willing to pose as the new marquis.” She smiled, as if a wolf in sheep’s clothing were all they needed to pull the wool over society’s eyes. “Garrett would do it with no questions asked,” she mused, “…but he is off gallivanting about the country or some such—and we cannot wait for him to return.” She tapped her finger against her lips as she thought.
“How about that stable hand, Ellie?” Marce offered.
It was likely that he’d question her request, but she trusted him above any other man in her acquaintance—besides her sister’s husband, Harold, of course, but asking for his help was certainly out of the question.
“The boy Payton is infatuated with…” Marce continued when Ellie didn’t immediately praise her idea. Ellie kept her pose relaxed, as if a twinge of possessiveness hadn’t sparked within her. “Oh, do not fret, she’s long had her sights set on a certain baron’s wayward son.”
“Why would I fret?” Marce’s perceptiveness rivaled that of an inquisitor. “He is only a stable hand.”
“That is good to hear.” The blonde eyed her closely.
To avoid her stare, Ellie paced before the fire once more. “You suggest I ask him for assistance?”
“I do not see the harm in it. You are his employer, and he will likely do anything you ask to keep his position.”
Ellie didn’t doubt her thinking. “And I believe I can trust he will not share the news about an heir with the other household servants as he’s not one for gossip and such—which makes him quite the bore.”
Marce looked at her, brow raised in question.
“Oh, not that I notice him overmuch, it is only I have heard he journeys to Lord Haversham’s townhouse on his afternoons off—and chooses not to visit the local inn for ale with the other servants.” Ellie couldn’t tell if she was making the older woman’s suspicions worse.
The tall clock against the wall chimed the top of the hour, and both women jumped as the sound echoed through the room, slipped around the door that stood ajar, and continued down the corridor beyond. The chimes had barely faded when a knock could be heard from the front of the house.
“Oh, my,” Marce said, standing quickly and handing the missive to Ellie. “Time has gotten away from me. You must be on your way. I am not expecting anyone, but mayhap I forgot another meeting.”
“One other thing before I go.” Ellie stopped, remembering her other unwanted visitor of the day. “Daphne’s husband came round, looking for her.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That I did not have anyone in my household by that name, but he knew I lied. I could tell.” Ellie despised the feelings of terror the man had instilled in her in those brief moments. It had been a rare pleasure—an entire year free of her father’s abuse. But Ellie should have known it couldn’t last indefinitely. However, she wouldn't allow it to have her flinching again at every raised voice or slammed door; she would be strong, for herself and Daphne. “But it is unlikely he will return. One of my servants intervened and took care of the matter. My butler was instructed to not allow him entry, and to alert me if he comes round once more.”
“I will do what I can to dissuade him from pestering you again,” Marce said with a smile, and Ellie sensed she didn’t want to know exactly how Marce would dissuade Daphne’s husband from his search.
Slipping the note into her apron pocket, Ellie departed the room—no more confident in her future than when she’d arrived, but if all else failed and she was thrown from her home, there would forever be a place at Craven House for her.
She only feared her life would mirror that of her deceased mother.
Chapter 4
The house appeared the height of respectability, if not ringing with wealth, with a neatly trimmed landscape, cleanly swept walk, and windows polished until they sparkled. Even the sign out front proclaiming the manor’s name as Craven House was freshly painted.
Alex paced in the darkening evening outside the stable door, awaiting Lady Ellington’s summons to depart. He’d begun to wonder an hour earlier if the woman meant to have him wait all night for her orders, only to slip past him—and disappear into the twilight unchaperoned—to punish him for insisting on accompanying her.
He would never understand her. She fought to be in control of Drake House, but sulked like a child when they’d been at Foldger’s Hall at Christmastide. She’d been serious in observing society’s strict rules during the mourning period for the marquis, but spoke harshly of the man. She was the most beautiful lady he’d ever seen, and yet, wanted nothing to do with balls or other matters within society.
It was past time Lady Ellington realized she could not live her entire life hidden away in that dusty, old townhouse, only leaving under guise of the setting sun or a fool’s noonday errand. It was no way for a woman to live—or any person, for that matter.
Though Mrs. Dutton—and Lady Haversham—said his choices in life were suspect, as well. They’d both urged him relentlessly in the past year to retire to Foldger’s Hall, or take a position at one of Lord Haversham’s estates. He’d have the opportunity to train horses, while caring for a stable much grander than that which could be housed in London proper. No matter the promises made, Alex couldn’t leave his post. Something kept him securely tethered to the marquis…and Ellington.
He had the sense that if he left, she’d see it as him abandoning her—leaving her without someone to watch over her. And it was no secret that he did not trust the women of this house—Alex didn’t understand their interest in Ellie, nor why the girl continued to come to this house of ill repute. Though, at Lady Haversham’s insistence, he’d kept a close eye on Ellie and her time spent at Craven House. She always arrived during the late morning hours and left long before the Madame’s clients began arriving. This was the first time she’d stayed later than he felt was safe.
He peered into the dim interior of the stables where Mr. Curtis sat, shining a bridle with a sturdy cloth. Alex weighed his options for removing Ellie before the eve deepened further. He could send the old man to the main house to check on his mistress, at least then he would know she was safe and still inside, but he’d likely receive a tongue-lashing from her—pushing him to depart.
But the night was settling, and with it came the unpredictable evening travel through the dark London streets. Alex pushed his hands deep into his trouser pockets to warm his chilled, aching hand. His thigh pulsed slightly with discomfort from the long day’s work stacking bales. It was times such as these that Alex truly pondered his future if he were to take a more prominent position at another stable; maybe he would not be charged with such backbreaking labors, giving his body time to heal further.
But no, he knew as well as Lady Haversham that the hard work was exactly what had mended him thus far. The honest labor was good, not only for his injured body, but also kept his mind from churning. When his thoughts weren’t continually focused on his future, Lady Ellington dominated his consciousness—her sadness that went far deeper than Alex’s physical pain, her preference for solitude similar to what had led to Drake’s downfall.
She needed someone by her side.
He’d promised himself to be that man. Not Lady Ellington’s man per se—but someone who’d remain close and keep watch over her. Pull her from her continued melancholy.
After their time in the country, Ellie had returned to ignoring his presence, but he noticed her body’s reactions to his closeness—a slight stiffening, her shoulder’s straightening, or a sharp inhale of breath.
