Page 1 of Maid for the Marquess

PROLOGUE

ALEXANDER

Outside my town house, London made its displeasure with the weather known.

The streets were deserted, the roads absent of the sounds of carriages, ladies strolling and chatting. The only souls out were servants scurrying to complete their errands so they could hurry back to the heat and dryness of a kitchen hearth and perhaps a cup of weak tea to warm themselves with before getting busy with their tasks.

Shops were mostly empty, the downpour bouncing off the roads, settling the constant dust but creating puddles of muck instead. Those out in the weather tried to dodge the vast puddles without much success, their feet, skirts, and trouser legs wet and muddy.

The steady beat of the rain on the glass was almost soothing as I bent over the numerous ledgers and piles of correspondence awaiting my attention. An empty plate and cup were balanced on one end of the desk, precarious and forgotten from the small meal sent to me by the cook. She insisted I needed to eat and I refused to leave my study, so a compromise was made. I didn’t have to tell her she was correct and the small repast had cleared my head so I could continue to work. She knew, and I had no desire to see the smug smile on her face. She was already far too settled in her role here and knew I would rather cut off my arm than dismiss her.

A fire danced merrily in the hearth, warming the room and eschewing the dampness seeping in from outside. It was pleasant and quiet, the faint sounds of the servants going about their tasks a low noise in the background.

A sharp rap on my study door sounded out, disturbing my concentration. I didn’t cease in my endeavors, recognizing the knock. I had heard it innumerable times before now.

“Enter,” I called out.

The sound of steady footsteps confirmed my judgment.

“Sit, and I will be with you momentarily. You know where the scotch is.”

A chuckle sounded. “That would be most welcome, my lord.”

I finished the column in the ledger, pleased with the number. I shut the tome and sat back, regarding my visitor. Edward Warwick observed me, his gaze steady and calm. His shoulders were damp from the rain outside. No doubt too broad to fit under an umbrella. They filled the chair across from my desk, and his hair was wet. But his boots were clean, no doubt dried before he entered the hall. My housekeeper was as frightening as my cook, and he knew better than to tread on the Axminster with wet soles.

He had his ankle crossed over his knee, appearing relaxed, but I knew better. There was a tightening of his jaw, an erratic beat to his foot. The hand that held his crystal glass was fisted tightly. He was my right hand, my land steward, and my closest friend. I had known him most of my life and trusted him completely. He had news.

I sat back. “Tell me.”

He grinned, showing off his wide smile. “I bring news of the empty acreage between Wheaton and Milton Manor.”

Simply the subject sent a rush of fretfulness through me. “What of it?”

“Rumor has it that the piece of land your father sold will finally be made available.”

I leaned forward, eager. “How?”

“Lord Barnett is in deep financial trouble.”

I could barely hide my disdain simply hearing that name.

“How deep?”

“He is barely holding on. And, as such, is hosting a game. I have heard he plans to recoup his losses and pay his debts.”

I rubbed my bottom lip thoughtfully. “Is your source reliable?”

He tilted his head, studying me. “Isn’t it always?” he asked, raising his eyebrow in shock that I would question him.

“Is his situation well-known?”

“No. It is simply a chance for a high-stakes game for those who can afford it. I understand he has a very extravagant event planned to cover up his real reason for the gathering.”

“So he is going further into debt to cover it.”

“Yes.”

“It would seem that he is still naught but a simpleton with more ideas than brains.”