Page 3 of Tempting the Marquess

Chapter1

London, 5 April1815

“If you won’t carrya pistol, my lord, at least take a few daggers. I hold grave concerns for your wellbeing.”

Shrugging on his black greatcoat in the vast, lavish foyer of Hastings House, William Hastings, Marquess of Standish, quirked a brow at his butler. “I know it’s been many years since I made an appearance at Almack’s, Jensen, but surely it hasn’t gotten thatbad.”

“Ha. Reliable sources inform me that the opposition are so cunning and ruthless even the French would take notes,” the staid older man replied in a dire tone. “You’ll be a plump chicken at Christmas. Toffees on MayDay...”

“Your confidence in my ability to fend off a few young ladies and their mamas is truly gratifying.”

“Do not think of them as women, my lord. Perhaps…wolves. Yes, a pack of hungry, rabid wolves. Mark my words, there will be blood in the hallowed halls.”

William suppressed a snort. It was true, some ton, and almost-ton families took the marriage mart exceedingly seriously. Perhaps he should record some words for a tombstone, just in case. Here lies William David Richard Hastings, lord of the realm, codebreaker, and loyal servant of His Majesty’s government. Succumbed to a herd of stampeding spinsters and carnivorous chaperones somewhere between the refreshment table and string quartet. Mourned by his beloved…

He ruthlessly halted the thought. No. While his foster brother Stephen Forsyth, Earl of Westleigh, and friend George Grenville, Earl of Trentham, had made love matches with their wives Caroline and Louisa respectively, that path was not for him. He would marry only to secure the marquessate with a legitimate heir. And as he rapidly approached his thirtieth birthday, that point needed to be sooner rather than later. He hadn’t given much thought to his future wife, other than she should be scandal-free, wellborn, also dedicated to duty, and a gracious hostess. Preferably a woman who would be a kind and doting mother.

For this she would be compensated with a generous allowance, gowns and jewelry, and a lofty position among the cream of society. But they would be amiable acquaintances. Nothing more. The Marchioness of Standish would never be put at risk, or sacrifice herself, because oflove.

“Wolves, Jensen? Mention that to their faces, and I will purchase you a knighthood.”

“All I’m saying,” his butler replied, ignoring the remark with a disdainful sniff, “Is the dowager asks an awful lot ofyou.”

William frowned. Surely everyone knew he would face down the hounds of hell for the woman who had taken him in and cared for him like a third son after his parents’ horrific murder. If said hounds happened to wear pastel ball gowns and heeled slippers, so be it. Besides, he couldn’t possibly have denied this request, not when Aunt Jane was so excited about sponsoring her niece’s comeout.

It didn’t matter that he hadn’t set eyes on Lady Samantha Buchanan in over a decade, nor how she looked or what manners she possessed. He would nod approvingly and dance a set with her. The poor chit was starting from an unenviable position—not only was she making her come out much later than others at age twenty, but her parents the Earl and Countess of Claremont were notorious for all the wrong reasons. Lady Samantha needed as many powerful supporters as she couldget.

“Lady Westleigh asks nothing that I’m not prepared to do,” he said coldly, the topic closed as far as he was concerned. “Now, I’m offto—”

“Excuse me, my lord,” interrupted a footman, hurrying to his side. “A note has just arrived from Whitehall.”

“Add it to the other correspondence in my library,” William replied, not in the mood for one of those right now. “I’m about to go out for the evening.”

“Begging your pardon, but the runner said it’s urgent.”

They alwaysare.

Since he’d first joined the shadowy branch of government that defended the realm against foreign threats, protecting king and country had come first. No request was denied, because they were all urgent, all matters of life and death. Every late night meeting, every page of unbreakable code, every translation of obscure dialect. Intelligence wasn’t a career for the fainthearted; for every moment of blood-fizzing triumph, there were ten times that of defeat or despair. If he were honest, sometimes the latter was so soul-destroying it was difficult to continue. There seemed to be an unending supply of English traitors, French spies, and those who created mischief and unrest for their own amusement or financialgain.

“Very well,” William said, reluctantly taking the parchment, breaking the seal, and swiftly reading the short message.

Standish,

We must discuss an important matter without delay. The usual location.

W.

Bloody hell.What now? Further news on Napoleon? The colonies? It had better not be another debacle with the Prince Regent. The self-absorbed dandy and shocking spendthrift was a barnacle on the backside of the throne.

Crossing the cream marble floor to a small fireplace, William threw the note in. Watching, as always, until nothing but ash remained.

“Is my carriage ready?” he asked, glancing back at the footman, who nodded hastily. “Then inform the driver we’ll be stopping at Whitehall prior to Almack’s.”

A half hour later William slipped through a discreet side entrance of the stately building, striding up several sets of stairs until he reached a suite of rooms on the upper floor. Even during the day it was quiet up here—few men had permission to walk these corridors—and he knocked then entered a large, well-lit office.

“Well, White? You summoned me, here Iam.”

The Home Office intelligence coordinator, dressed in gray from head to toe and sporting faded ginger hair thinning by the day, peered distractedly from behind several piles of paperwork. “Standish.”