Page 7 of The Best Marquess

“No, she is upstairs napping with her faithful cloth companion, Miss Wabbit. But this note was delivered right when we were eating breakfast.”

Finn took the letter and unfolded it. As he read the familiar handwriting of his father’s secretary, his fingers clenched so hard the paper rustled. Pinehurst was well enough to still dictate threats, it seemed. “Sack of shit or sewer rat are names too good for him.”

“Is it true?” Abby asked, her voice breaking as her hands twisted in the folds of her brown striped gown. “Are we to be evicted for non-payment of rent?”

“No,” he said fiercely. “I paid for an entire quarter in advance; we still have a fortnight. You got that letter because Pinehurst cut off my allowance and thinks he holds all the power. But I’m attending to the situation. In fact, I am confident it will be resolved in a few days at most. Nothing for you or anyone else here to worry about.”

“Really? Because I’ve heard men say that many times, always directly before a catastrophe. I don’t want to be coddled; I’d rather know.”

“I swear, no foolish coddling,” he said solemnly.

His sister raised an eyebrow. “May I ask exactly how you are resolving it? Because if the plan involves disposal of an older aristocratic body, I’ll need to arrange for Nessie’s nurse to mind her for the evening.”

A laugh escaped. “No bodies, you bloodthirsty wench.”

“Then tell me what you are doing. If Pinehurst has cut you off, no bank or lender will assist because he holds far too much sway. Will you become a highwayman? Indulge in some good old-fashioned smuggling?”

Finn shook his head. “Something marginally less likely to result in me being shot. I’m getting betrothed.”

All trace of amusement left Abby’s face. “No. You love Lady Pippa. I won’t let you marry some random woman so we can have a roof overhead. I couldn’t live with that.”

“I should have specified,” he replied, striving for a jaunty tone. “The woman is Pippa. We made a bargain; she is lending me money for the business; I will be her pretend betrothed so she avoids a bad match her grandmother is plotting. A win for us both. Now, let’s look at the new demi masks, shall we?”

“Excuse me? A pretend betrothal? Finlay—”

“Can’t hear you. Business matters are calling my name with a sweet siren’s song.”

“I bet they are,” Abby muttered, but she followed him upstairs to the bright, airy music room, where two former haberdashery apprentices were expertly decorating black satin masks with colored feathers and paste gems. The masks were becoming popular with hosts of the kind of country house parties where guests decided at the end of the evening whose bed they would retire to.

In a chair beside the roaring fire, a plump, retired mistress of pain play was testing a pile of leather collars and matching cuffs, and beside her, two young footmen were placing discreetly wrapped packages into a burlap sack for their next round of deliveries. Across the hallway in the much larger drawing room, three employees were crafting jeweled nipple clamps alongside dildos made of jade and leather. Next door in the library, two maids were unpacking boxes of explicit French romance novels which had been translated into English.

Finn read each title before offering it for sale. Initially he’d done so to offer intelligent opinions when Pippa talked about her novels, but now he’d become quite addicted. There was something wonderful about a story where unlikely lovers had grand adventures, bedded each other continuously, vanquished villains, then lived happily ever after.

Something…hopeful.

“We have excellent products,” Finn said in frustration as they continued on to the small office. “But we need more orders. Not ten or twenty sales, hundreds and hundreds.”

“I do have an idea,” said Abby tentatively. “But we’d lose money to start. What if we sent a few samples with an order form to the madams of the high-end pleasure clubs? They could try out the toys and accessories in the comfort of their own rooms, and if they like them, place an order.”

“Excellent. Yes. Do it. At this point in time, I will try anything. I wonder if we should do the same for a select few ladies of the ton. If Bliss goods become a bedchamber essential, we’ll receive an avalanche of orders.”

His sister nodded and picked up a pile of ledgers. “I’ll let everyone know. What do you think in regard to numbers? We’ll probably need at least fifty of each item in stock.”

“Give each madam a full set. Dildo, cock ring, flogger, mask, nipple clamps, collar, cuffs, and romance novel. For those in the ton, just a novel to start. A Wicked Comte.”

“Is that the one where he beds the widow next door each night in a different costume?”

“No, the one set in the Middle Ages where he raids a castle and takes the king’s sister as his lover. I’ll leave a list of addresses for those I know who would welcome such a gift.”

Abby snorted. “Rake. I don’t know how you stay on such good terms with all your conquests.”

Finn groaned inwardly. Much like with Pippa, he’d long since given up trying to convince Abby he didn’t have conquests. In her world, that was all men did. Bed and discard, much like their sire had done. Like Nerissa’s father had done. And when one was a well-connected viscount labeled handsome and charming, salacious gossip about his prowess in the bedchamber was to be expected.

The truth was simple, though: much like the characters in the novels he read, he’d long ago decided only one person would suit. Currently, his idea of an excellent evening was his hand or a pleasure toy for company, and rereading his favorite explicit scenes. The French deserved boundless applause for their frankness; he might not have the practical experience, but felt rather confident with the theory.

“It takes a certain skill, a certain finesse,” he replied with a wink.

“No doubt. Are you going to stay and work on some designs? Nessie would love to see you.”