Rescuing the Marquise (Regency Romance): Winter Stories (Regency Tales Book 11) Read online

  He was a man that donated a substantial part of his wealth to the poor of London and ran in high circles in the English government. He was well travelled and well spoken and had a kind word about almost everyone. He could be a bit proud, especially when droning on about his favourite artists, but that was the only flaw Annabelle could truly claim to identify. He also walked with a silver-tipped cane. Whenever she asked him about the nature of the old injury, he demurred, made a jest, or changed the subject.

  If Annabelle was being truthful, she had fallen deeply in love with him. But it felt bitter to admit that, to taint such an innocent, happy time with regrets of the present. At the time, she had simply been too young and foolish to understand her own feelings. The recipe for disaster had been there from the beginning — young lovers, a sudden, whirlwind courtship, a country society defined by often raucous dances, and her own carelessness.

  Then, at one Christmas party, everything came crashing down. She had worn her deep blue dress, done up her fine, blonde hair with fashionable pearl pins, and thrown herself into the dance.

  As she twisted through one reel, she had collided with the Duke of Sherringham, who introduced himself as Markingston’s close friend and confidant. He proceeded to tell Annabelle that the Earl cared for her a great deal and was even considering a proposal — he had heard it from the horse’s mouth, after all. The news thrilled Annabelle so much that it frightened her. She had loved him — she had wanted to be his, but in her youthful confusion, she felt a bit trapped. On a certain level, Annabelle was not quite certain if she could believe that a man as tender and perfect as Lord Markingston could love a silly little thing like herself.

  So she spent most of the night downing as much wine as propriety would allow, with poor hapless Sherringham in tow. As the night wound on, she lost track of Markingston. The dance had grown rowdier and rowdier. Scandalously, reports of young couples sneaking off to inappropriately kiss in side rooms spread throughout the partygoers. It was time enough to leave the revelry.

  But Annabelle had thought she saw her Earl sneak off down a dimly lit hallway. She had rushed off the dance floor after him, slipping into a spare bedroom to see what he was up to.

  “My love,” she had said, swaying insecurely in place. “Is it true what the Duke of Sherringham says? Do you intend to propose marriage?”

  The man had turned around and Annabelle gasped — it was the Duke himself, not her Earl.

  “My apologies,” the Duke said, words slurring. “You have the wrong man. I just came in here to sleep off this stupor.” With that, he fell back, plopping onto the large bed in the centre of the room.

  Just then, the doorknob began to rattle. Annabelle moved to hide in a large, oaken wardrobe. Unfortunately, she was so startled by the turn of events that she tripped over her own feet and the long fabric of her gown and ended up falling atop the bed — landing directly on Sherringham!

  At that moment, the door burst open on the pair, catching them both in a compromising pose.

  Annabelle had locked eyes with Lord Markingston’s dark green irises. They were filled with shock and a pain.

  Once she had managed to disentangle herself from Sherringham, she went to look for the Earl. He had fled the premises.

  She never saw or heard from him again.

  She knew Markingston must have misinterpreted what happened. At the time, she had hardened her heart to his apparent hurt. If he did not trust her enough to be faithful, then he likely did not love her. He had not ever even reached out to discern what had happened. The hapless Duke of Sherringham and she exchanged a few letters, confirming that both of them were being given the cold shoulder by their former connection.

  The Duke despaired. Annabelle took the opposite approach — growing colder in response to her former love’s severance of ties. So, prideful and assured of her own righteousness, she had continued with the mindless cycles of balls and minuets, until she danced into the arms of the Marquis de Sange. He had seemed — embarrassing as it sounded — exciting at the time. She even thought she might love him as he swept her away to Paris. Soon after her marriage, however, he revealed himself to be nothing more than a boorish lout. He spent most of his time drinking and sniping at Annabelle. They spent most of their time separated, until, one morning the Marquis did not wake up from his drunken stupor.

  Across the room, someone dropped a glass, snapping Annabelle back to the present. She blinked. The window was nearly completely covered with frost now. How long had she been sitting around, avoiding her friends and wallowing in such disappointments and unhappy memories? She shook her head. There was no sense on dwelling on the past. She had a new life now — one she should not neglect for the sake of crying over what could have been.

  Resolutely, the Marquise stood up and nearly walked straight into a hard manly chest.

  She gaped. It was him, the Earl of Markingston. He was older, with moderately longer hair, scruffier side burns, and a slightly more powerful build, but otherwise he had barely changed.

  Her heart skipped a beat. What on earth was going on?

  He seemed equally surprised to see her. His green eyes widened and he stammered a bit.

  “I…Annabelle…I….”

  “My lord,” she said, curtseying. She was never sure what the rules were when it came to formalities in post-Revolutionary France, but she always figured it was better to stick to decorum until told otherwise.

  “My lady.” He bowed. “I apologise, but I must go.”

  He strode out of the room, his boots clicking as he walked. Annabelle watched him walk away, a flush rising in her cheeks.

  So much for the ghosts of the past coming back to haunt her. This particular phantom seemingly could scarcely stand to be around her!

  THREE

  Lord Markingston darted into the cold, winter’s night, pulling on his coat as he walked down the street. This was bad. In all his years as an agent for the Crown and the English government, he had never behaved so poorly on a mission.

  But she was here now, complicating everything, throwing all his plans off.

  He had scoped out the Baroness’s Christmas party because he’d determined that the conspiratorial painter he was after was present. The fellow, François, seemed like an amiable sort of person. They had connected and agreed to meet at a point in the future, at tomorrow evening’s ball thrown by the Baroness Dumont (who apparently had cornered the market on lavish holiday celebrations amongst the Parisian artistic set). At this point, Lord Markingston was posing as a gentleman art connoisseur looking to commission a painting, nothing more.

  Looking back, he probably should have expected the Marquise to be there as well. He had foolishly hoped against hope that this would not be the case

  Markingston suddenly felt quite furious with himself. He lashed out, kicking his boot into a frozen-over pile of snow. For the second time in his life, he had fled the presence of the woman he once loved more than anything in the world — still loved above all else, if he was being perfectly honest with himself.

  She deserved an explanation for his idiotic, prideful behaviour. But he was too much of a coward to give one to her. Back in the days he had known — and loved — Annabelle, he had been a different man — a rash, impetuous boy given to pride and self-righteousness.

  Indeed, he had discovered the Duke of Sherringham — his closest friend in the entire world — and the woman he loved entangled in what could only be construed as a passionate, sensual embrace. However, years of reflection on the damaging incident had slowly, but surely, given him pause over his own sudden reaction — carving both of them out of his life without even the slightest chance for reconciliation.

  He wished he had simply talked to them — especially to Annabelle. Perhaps if it had all been some misunderstanding, they might have cleared it up. Their love might not have ended so heinously. They might be married, with children and a happy, beautiful life to share, today.

  The Earl shook his head. There was no s
ense in dwelling on such unhappy memories. He needed to stay focused on the important mission at hand. Previous romantic entanglements would only distract him from protecting the interests of the realm.

  He strode off to the reasonably priced, unflashy inn where he was to reside during his time in France. There, he spent a miserable night tossing and turning, despite the warm room and comfortable bed.

  When he woke up in the morning and trod downstairs to eat breakfast, the innkeeper’s overly cheerful son presented him with a short letter.

  “Merci,” Lord Markingston said, accepting the note after rubbing his bleary, shadow-rimmed green eyes. He did not recognise the swirling, over-the-top handwriting. The note was a short, precise invitation to one of the Baroness Dumont’s balls. He squinted closer. The event was to be held the next day.

  Absently and somewhat absurdly, Lord Markingston held the paper over the candle flickering in the middle of the table, like it was some sort of confidential report. This was a rather convenient opportunity to reconnect with Topino-Lebrun and some of the other plotters — almost too convenient, really. Watching the flames eat away at the note, the Earl of Markingston worried that some sort of secret provocateur was luring him into a trap, in an attempt to embroil England in a diplomatic spat with France. Of course, if an English agent were caught facilitating a plot to eliminate Napoleon, things would spiral out of control in the diplomatic world and a military confrontation would be inevitable.

  Also, the invitation made him realise something else. The Baroness Dumont was clearly well connected to the snarled, entangled knot that was Paris society. As far as Lord Markingston knew, only Williams and Stuart knew where he was staying.

  By the time the paper had burned to ash, Lord Markingston had made up his mind. He would attend the ball, but proceed with caution.

  That meant no spying, no overt contact with the conspirators, and, hopefully, no more embarrassing run-ins with Annabelle.

  ***

  The Earl of Markingston inadvertently broke all three of his rules within the first hour of the ball, which took place in the jam-packed, elaborately festooned great hall of Baroness Dumont’s Paris residence.

  The first infraction was not his fault — François sought him out and would scarcely leave him alone. Much to the Earl’s dismay, the man expressed quite a few revolutionary sentiments during their conversation, which he could not pry himself away from, despite his best efforts. Eventually, the painter grew bored and moved on to another person to lecture about the evils of tyranny.

  After that, the Earl had to admit that he did a bit of spying after all. He trailed the painter, keeping an eye on who exactly he spoke to as he swept across the dancefloor and to the tables heaped high with food. Lord Markingston wanted to see if he could identify any sort of French agent provocateur behind the conspiracy. However, no one jumped out at him. All his surveillance was ultimately for nothing.

  Lastly, Lord Markingston failed in his mission to hide from Annabelle. This, perhaps, was the least surprising turn of events throughout the entire evening. Naturally, the Baroness had invited her close friend the Marquise to the holiday ball.

  The Earl first caught sight of her shortly after arriving. Annabelle appeared at the top of the stairs like a vision. Her luminous, white dress was as clingy as was acceptable. She wore pearl-studded pins in her pale hair, just as she had on that fateful night four years ago. It showed off her tall, statuesque figure to great advantage. The moment he saw her, the ache of regret over what he missed out on sharpened into a pang. She was stunning. The years had only increased and refined her beauty.

  After all these years, he still felt drawn to her, somehow. Without even meaning to, he found himself moving closer and closer, until he was trapped in her orbit.

  After circling one another a few times, they finally locked eyes in one chilly corner of the room.

  “My lord,” she said, smiling. “You are just the person I was hoping to see.”

  “I could say the same thing about you, my lady.” He bowed.

  He ushered her into a closed-off parlour. The room featured a crackling fire and numerous expensive-looking vases. “The Baroness will not mind if we trespass for a moment.”

  Annabelle took a seat on the cushy sofa, while Lord Markingston chose a high-backed armchair.

  “Please forgive my abhorrent rudeness the other night,” he began. “I… I was truly shocked to see you. This was foolish on my part — it looks like Paris is your town, after all.”

  Annabelle waved away his concerns. “I understand completely. I felt the same way upon seeing you. It is better that we meet now, in a quieter setting. It has been too long.”

  “I feel… I feel as if we should discuss…”

  “We need not dwell on the sad memories of the past,” she said quickly.

  “Certainly.”

  Despite his words the Earl disagreed — he desperately wanted to express his guilt and remorse for their parting.

  However, he did not want to upset Annabelle either.

  “What’s past is past.”

  “What’s past is past,” she repeated. “I was hoping that we could simply… reignite our previous friendship.”

  “I would like that.”

  “Good. Us English transplants must stick together, after all.”

  “I have one question… how did you know about the inn where I was staying.”

  Her lips curled into a coy smile.

  “I can only assume you are the one who alerted the Baroness to my whereabouts.”

  “I know everyone in Paris, my lord. Nothing gets past me. The second I realised you were here, I told the Baroness to invite you tonight.”

  The Earl felt his face growing a bit hotter, and, in his heart, he did not think the blazing fire was to blame.

  “François informs me that you are quite enthusiastic about the Parisian art scene,” she continued.

  For all of the troubling and uncomfortable emotions this reunion was bringing out in Lord Markingston, the connection might have an upside too. “He is quite right, my lady. I am especially interested in some of the projects he said he was working on.”

  “You are in luck. I happen to host the salon he belongs to. You are welcome to stop by at our meetings. I would be happy to have you there.”

  “You are too kind, my lady.”

  After a rather formal goodbye, the pair left each other’s company and departed from the parlour, separately. The Earl felt like his head was reeling from the conversation. Much to his surprise, she seemed to want to be around him after all. She had even sought him out!

  Markingston strolled outside, to the circular drive in front of the house, to get a breath of fresh air. The night was frozen, but the cold pouring into his lungs made him feel more awake, more alive.

  “Good night for a walk, governor,” a low, English voice said, out of the darkness. The Earl moved closer, until he found Williams and Stuart, lurking on the side of the property. They were dressed as simple coachmen.

  “What’s the word, then?” Stuart asked, impatiently. “Is the plot even real?”

  The Earl felt a bit ashamed. He had not made as much progress with the case as he had hoped.

  “I still need to determine that for certain. But I will tell you this — this Topino-Lebrun character and his friends do harbour rather intense Jacobin sympathies. I have not had the chance to really meet with him and his colleagues, one on one to get a definite answer. But I have made contact with him and he seems convinced of my sympathy.”

  “Too busy flirting with the pretty ladies at the ball?” Williams teased.

  Stuart rolled his eyes. “Well, you’d best stop dancing and hurry up with the investigation. London wanted answers yesterday. We also just received word from our superiors across the Channel. If you think this little potential plot has any legs, you’re to help them as much as you can — barring pulling the trigger on old Bonaparte yourself.”

  “Understood. Thank you, gent
lemen.” With that, Markingston headed back into the ball with a renewed sense of purpose. He immediately singled out the painter in question and struck up another politically-tinged conversation.

  “I must say, Paris is quite lovely, even in the winter,” he said, purposefully slurring his words a bit, to give the impression of intoxication. “It’s really been a pleasure coming here.”

  “Indeed, my friend.” Topino-Lebrun clapped him on the back. He reeked of wine. “This is the greatest city in the world, non?”

  “Absolutely! No question about it.” The Earl darted his eyes around the room, as if to check if anyone was eavesdropping on them. “And that’s despite the madman running the show.”

  François kept his face somewhat blank. “Oh?”

  “Of course. It’s the talk of Europe, this Napoleon upstart. I don’t know… I must say… I don’t know how any reasonable folks around here stand it. He’s like a modern day Caesar, slipping in and seizing control like that. Abysmal. Truly a modern-day tyrant, eh?”

  “You certainly have a lot of opinions on French politics, don’t you?”

  “Perhaps. But I’m curious about you, François. What do you make of all this mess?”

  The artist glanced around carefully, before guiding the Earl back to the side parlour that he had previously met Annabelle in. “Why don’t we discuss matters in a more private location?”

  “Very good, very good!” the Earl sputtered. “Don’t want any Bonapartists to catch us, eh?”

  The two strode into the quieter room. Much to the Earl’s alarm, the painter closed the door behind him and locked it.

  “You really like privacy, don’t you?” he laughed.

  The painter did not return his grin. Instead, the slender man flicked out a small blade that had been concealed up his sleeve.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “I—I… sorry, old boy, I thought we were introduced previously. I’m the Earl of Markingston—”