Marianne & the Marquis Read online

  “I kissed you because I find you irresistible, but I am sorry if I have offended you, Miss Horne. It was wrong of me to take advantage of you.”

  Her eyes widened, their color the hue of a mountain pool, clear and green, touched by sunshine. And then she smiled.

  “You have robbed your action of any offense, sir. Nor can I pretend that I found it distasteful, for I did not—though I beg that you will not do it again without my permission.”

  Drew laughed, for she was a breath of fresh air. It was her frankness, her open manner that fascinated him as much as her beauty. He had met women in society who might perhaps come near to her in looks, but none had made this direct appeal to his senses. At that moment he would have liked to take her down to the soft earth and lose himself in the sweetness of her flesh. Yet if he did that she would hate him, and he would be beyond redemption.

  Marianne and the Marquis

  Harlequin®Historical

  Author Note

  Marianne’s story is the first of a trilogy dealing with the lives and loves of three sisters. Marianne, Jo and Lucy are the Reverend Horne’s daughters, and their papa, now sadly deceased, has been a big influence on their lives. Now things must change, for their mama has very little money and is at the mercy of her sister’s charity. When Marianne is asked to stay with an ailing great-aunt, she cannot guess that she will be involved with dangerous smugglers, or that she will find love and change her life forever.

  I hope, dear reader, that you will enjoy following Marianne’s story and those of her sisters as they struggle against—and overcome—the difficulties fate throws at them.

  Look for Jo’s story in

  Married by Christmas

  and Lucy’s in

  Marrying Captain Jack

  Coming soon

  Marianne and the Marquis

  Anne Herries

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  ANNE HERRIES

  Award-winning author Anne Herries lives in Cambridgeshire, England. She is fond of watching wildlife, and spoils the birds and squirrels that are frequent visitors to her garden. Anne loves to write about the beauty of nature, and sometimes puts a little into her books—although they are mostly about love and romance. She writes for her own enjoyment and to give pleasure to her readers. She invites readers to contact her on her Web site, www.lindasole.co.uk.

  Available from Harlequin®Historical and

  ANNE HERRIES

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  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Afterword

  Chapter One

  London—1813

  ‘They are a particularly nasty lot,’ Captain Jack Harcourt said to his friend when they met at their sporting club that August afternoon. They had enjoyed a bout in the ring under the tuition of the master pugilist, Gentleman Jackson, and, stripped to the waist, their bodies gleamed with sweat. Jack’s opponent was a little taller and more muscular, but they were evenly matched. ‘If you take this on, you must understand that you risk your life if you are caught.’

  Andrew, Lord Beck, Marquis of Marlbeck, doused himself under the pump in the yard and grinned at his friend of many years. They were alike in so many ways that they might have been blood kin, but in fact there was no relationship other than the bond they had forged fighting together in Portugal and Spain.

  ‘If I were fool enough to get caught, I should deserve my fate,’ he said, his eyes bright with mockery. ‘Do not fear, Jack. I shan’t let you down. I may have been forced to sell my commission, but I haven’t gone soft. If this spy is to be found where you say, I am your man.’

  ‘I didn’t imagine you had lost your nerve for a moment. I rely on you to get to the bottom of this,’ Jack told him. ‘Because of him, seven of our friends died, Drew—and there were the men that served with us. At least twenty died needlessly that day, and who knows how many more? I want revenge for them, as I know you do. I would investigate this tale myself, but I have been seconded to special duties for Wellington.’

  ‘You believe the spy was one of our own?’ Drew looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Someone we fought with, ate with…’ He frowned, tasting the bitterness he had tried so hard to put behind him these past months. ‘I like not the thought of that, Jack.’

  The memory of all that they and their comrades had shared out there, of the pain, fear and grief at seeing the men they knew and cared for die in agony, was sharp in his mind.

  ‘It makes me sick to my stomach,’ Jack replied. ‘If I could think otherwise, I should be a happier man—but everything leads me to believe that we were betrayed that day by an Englishm
an—and that even now he is working for Bonaparte.’

  ‘My God!’ Drew’s eyes glinted with anger. He could never forget that day in Spain when he and a small detachment of his men had been sent on what was supposed to be a surprise sortie against the French. The enemy had somehow known of their coming and, though Jack, two others and Drew had escaped with their lives, seven of their comrades had been cut down as well as a number of the men that followed them. ‘If I find him, he should say his last prayers!’

  ‘No, that is not the way,’ Jack warned him. ‘He must hang for his sins, Drew. If you take summary justice you are no better than he and his accomplices.’

  ‘You think there was more than one involved?’

  ‘One Englishman—the others are undoubtedly French.’

  ‘And you think that they are now running this smuggling gang?’

  ‘The smuggling is a cover for their other activities,’ Jack said. ‘I am sure that the spy comes and goes with the French ship, which brings in brandy, silks and laces under cover of darkness. But the Englishman is able to mix with people like us and use what he learns against our army. In short, he is a gentleman, or what passes for one. We are far from done with this war, Drew. It will come to a showdown in the end, and Wellington wants this spy caught and hung before he can betray more of our secrets.’

  ‘The devil he does!’ Drew frowned, his eyes glinting with blue fire, which burned cold, black ice at its centre. ‘Well, I shall do my best to bring the traitor to heel.’ He clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘It was good to have this time with you, Jack. I miss the old days…’

  Drew had been called home when his uncle died—the Marlbeck estate was an important one, and, as his uncle’s heir, he had been expected to sell his commission. It was his duty to care for the land, but with no other family, except a cousin some twenty years his senior, he sometimes found it a lonely task, missing the comradeship he had known in the army.

  ‘You are sure you wish to become involved in this?’ Jack asked. ‘When Old Hooky suggested you, I thought you would turn it down. I confess I am surprised that you feel able to take something like this on. You must have enough to do with Marlbeck?’

  ‘Duty becomes boring at times,’ Drew said wryly. ‘Wait until you are forced to settle down, my friend. You may long for adventure.’

  ‘Adventure?’ Jack frowned and wondered. He loved Drew as a friend and a brother, but there had been times when his wildness and temper had led him astray. ‘This is serious business, Drew. You would be well advised not to forget it.’

  ‘Do not look so doubtful,’ Drew told him. ‘I assure you that I am over all that…the nightmares hardly trouble me now. And even if they did, I should not let them interfere with my duty. You have asked me to discover the identity of the man who betrayed us—a spy working for the French and using a smuggling gang to cover his activities. I give you my word that I shall do everything I can to bring him to justice.’

  ‘Then Wellington was right,’ Jack said. ‘You are the man for the work—and here’s my hand on it.’

  Drew clasped his hand firmly. No need to tell his friend that if he ever caught the spy, and knew him to be the traitor who had betrayed so many good men, he would kill him.

  ‘Your aunt is coming to tea this afternoon, Marianne,’ Mrs Horne announced as the family sat in their handsome parlour. The Vicarage was a large, substantial house filled with the personal treasures accumulated over the last twenty-five years since Mrs Horne had first come there as a bride. It had a slightly shabby air—money had not been plentiful—but until the last few months that had not bothered the family one whit. However, today there was a slightly apprehensive look in her soft blue eyes, for Cynthia Horne had always been in awe of her sister, and the feeling had grown more overpowering since the tragic death of the Reverend Horne some months earlier. ‘Her note says that she has something she wishes to discuss with us.’

  ‘Do you think she is going to ask us to live with her?’ Jo asked, pulling a face. She had been cutting out a fashion plate from a magazine given her by some friends, which she intended to make into a doll for one of the poor children in the village. It was an attractive illustration; pasted on to a piece of board, it would make a toy for one of her worthy causes. Jo was always willing to help and had spent the morning visiting a poor family in the village. ‘I think I would rather not be her guest, Mama.’

  ‘You know we cannot stay here for much longer,’ Marianne reminded her sister. At nineteen she was the eldest of the three Horne sisters and generally accounted a beauty, with her honey-blond hair and eyes that were a greenish-blue and often reflected her moods. She had a soft, very appealing mouth and was known for her equable disposition. ‘It is only because the living is in Lord Wainwright’s gift that we have been allowed this special favour—and we cannot expect it to continue for ever. We ought by rights to have left within a month of Papa’s loss.’

  The Reverend Horne’s death had been such a shock to his family, for he had always seemed hale and filled with energy, forever working for his parishioners or in his long back garden, where he thought it no shame to grow food for his table and that of others.

  ‘We need not despair,’ Mrs Horne said, trying to rally herself as much as her daughters, because any mention of the Reverend’s death was enough to have them all in tears. He was much missed by his family and parishioners alike. ‘There is always the cottage that belonged to your grandfather. It is mine, though it has been let for years and provides me with a small income of my own. However, we could live in it if we had to. I know it means moving to Cambridgeshire, but I think I might prefer that to living on Agatha’s charity, which would not be comfortable for any of us.’

  ‘Please, do not say we must live with Lady Wainwright,’ Lucy cried. Her blue eyes filled with tears. ‘If only darling Papa had not died. He was such a good person, always helping others. Why did he have to get pneumonia and die? I think God was cruel to take him from us.’ The youngest of the three sisters, she was her family’s darling. She burst into tears and was comforted by her eldest sister, who put an arm around her and hushed her.

  ‘Don’t cry, dearest,’ Marianne said, stroking Lucy’s soft hair, which was like pale silk, shimmering in a ray of sunshine that pierced the long windows overlooking the back garden. Just now the garden was a mass of roses and sweet-smelling flowers, a peaceful haven for the birds and droning bees. ‘We all wish that Papa was still with us, but tears will not change things. We have to decide what to do for the best. Uncle Wainwright has been good enough to let us stay here until we have had time to come to terms with our loss, but he needs to provide a proper house for the new vicar—and this is his property.’

  Lord Wainwright was a generous man, and Marianne knew that her family had reason to be grateful to him, but his wife, her mama’s sister, lost no opportunity to make them aware of the fact that they were living on her husband’s charity. Lady Wainwright was very conscious of her position in society and had always let her sister know that she was very much below her in the social scale as the wife of a poor parson.

  ‘But it is our home,’ Jo said. ‘It is unfair that we should have to move. Why can the new vicar not live somewhere else? Lord Wainwright has plenty of houses. He could let us stay here if he wished.’

  ‘Because this is the Vicarage,’ Marianne said. Jo was the fiery member of the family. She had hair the colour of flame and eyes that were sometimes as green as the emerald in Mama’s wedding ring. ‘Uncle Wainwright may let us live in one of his other properties, but we must leave this house soon. It is the way things are, Jo, and there is nothing we can do but be grateful that we shall still have a home.’

  ‘Can you not talk to him, Mama?’ Jo demanded, unwilling to be pacified by her sister. ‘He likes you. I sometimes think he likes you more than he does Aunt Agatha.’

  ‘Jo!’ Mrs Horne was startled. She was well aware that her sister’s husband had feelings for her, but she was careful never to presume on
them. ‘You must not say such things. It is quite untrue, my dear. Besides—’ She broke off as they heard the rattle of carriage wheels at the front of the house. ‘Your aunt is here. Please, my darlings, no more of this talk. Remember that for the moment we are living on your uncle’s charity.’

  Jo subsided, though she looked stubborn. Of the three girls, she possibly found it the hardest to hide her resentment of the problems that had beset them since the Reverend Horne’s untimely death. She had a bright, quick mind like her father, and she had taken his loss hard. Marianne and Lucy grieved for Papa, as Mama did, of course, but it was Jo who was angry at the unfairness of their situation. The discovery that Papa’s trust fund, as a younger son, had ceased on his death, had thrown the family into a precarious situation financially.

  Marianne smiled at her sister encouragingly. She understood what Jo was feeling, because she had never been particularly fond of her aunt. Lady Wainwright had a dominant personality and her marriage had given her an inflated idea of her own importance. A woman of some temper, she tended to look down on Mrs Horne because she had married for love a gentleman of good birth but little fortune—and perhaps, the perceptive Marianne thought, because she was aware that her sister had been truly loved.

  Marianne rose to her feet as the imperious figure of her aunt swept into the room. Lady Wainwright was tall and thin, her features often giving the impression that she found life sour. She surveyed her sister’s family as they curtsied politely, nodding as if she expected no less. They were beneath her in rank, and must be made aware of what they owed to their benefactor.

  ‘Cynthia,’ she said and kissed the air as Mrs Horne presented her cheek. ‘You look tired. I suppose it is no wonder with all your troubles. Well, I have good news. Wainwright says you may have the Lodge. It is smaller than this house, but adequate, I dare say, for you cannot afford to entertain as you did. You will move as soon as it can be arranged.’