A Marquess for Convenience (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 5) Read online

  A Marquess for Convenience

  Bianca Blythe

  A Marquess for Convenience © Bianca Blythe. All Rights Reserved, except where otherwise noted.

  Contents

  Blurb

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  How to Capture a Duke

  A Rogue to Avoid

  Runaway Wallflower

  Mad About the Baron

  Thank You

  Blurb

  A lady. A thief. Are they unrelated…or one and the same?

  Before Lord Arthur Carmichael settles into a cabinet seat, he must complete two distasteful missions: find a wife, and find a thief who’s stolen four of five priceless French jewels before the fragile peace with England is destroyed.

  On the French Riviera, he encounters Lady Madeline Mulbourne, who never forgave him for vanishing during their long-ago courtship. And he suspects her nimble fingers are adept at more than just fluttering a fan, because she’s already stolen one thing. His heart.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to everyone who helped me with this book! I would especially like to thank my editor, Allison Wright, my copy editor, Kimberly Cannon, and my cover artist, Angela Waters.

  Chapter One

  The stars shimmered, the moon glowed, and Madeline’s heart tumbled downward as she inched from her hiding place.

  Not tonight.

  London had had the decency to be swathed in thick fog all week, yet this evening every object in the heavens seemed intent on emitting luminescent beams poets might rave about in iambic pentameter.

  The wind, stronger on the roof, swept undeterred over the multitude of chimneys, and Madeline glanced downward. Glossy ebony coaches rolled outside the French ambassador’s home with the steadiness and majestic slowness of funeral processions. Women’s dresses glimmered under the moonlight, and even the coachmen, adorned with lustrous top hats and unused whips that swayed in the breeze, radiated elegance.

  Madeline pulled her surreptitiously purchased greatcoat tightly about her body, lest her gown sparkle with unwanted potency. Few hues rivaled the impracticality of ivory.

  The traffic had stilled. Most of the visitors must be inside now, feasting on the sumptuous sugary concoctions the famous pâtissier whom the ambassador’s wife had procured. Ever since the war ended, everyone seemed delighted to indulge in all the French delicacies they’d denied themselves as they imbibed brandy and burgundies with glee.

  Madeline moved from the chimney’s shadow and crawled over the slanted roof. The wind brushed against her, ruffling her locks and the hem of her gown, as if admonishing her for hampering its incessant path. Her heartbeat quickened, interfering with the rhythm of her movements.

  Just a few feet more.

  She wound her way to the small window on the top floor.

  Madeline rested her feet gingerly on the ledge. The elaborate facade that adorned the window frame seemed designed to aid unwelcome visitors, and she swiveled her body to face the room and lowered her torso. Athleticism came naturally to her, even if housebreaking remained a more novel pastime.

  Madeline had spotted the window open last week and she swung her legs from the roof. She glanced at the street, wary of the cluster of guards below. Still, no vigilant sentry met her eye, pointing a stubby finger toward her and calling for others to stop her.

  Roof clambering was not her favorite entrance method, but servants at these events possessed an unfortunate habit of announcing everyone’s arrival in a lofty, old world ritual. At some point the magistrate would investigate who’d attended the event, and she preferred for her name to be removed from any incriminating lists. Any guest who saw her would assume she’d been invited. After all she was a baroness.

  She tapped her legs against the glass panes, and the window swung open easily. The guards outside didn’t have the imagination to know to stop her, and she smiled. Breaking the window would have been unideal.

  Even if the musicians tackled their violins with vigor, sending French songs floating through the air, someone might notice shards of glass tumbling from the heavens. Shattered glass had a propensity to damage her slippers even further than clambering on roofs.

  She slid into England’s most French establishment, and her feet thudded against the wooden floor. She blinked into darkness and stretched out her arms to familiarize herself with her surroundings.

  The stale scent and narrow corridor hardly denoted sumptuousness, but in her experience the French displayed a distinct tendency toward hypocrisy.

  The Costantini family depended on her success, and Madeline strode down the darkened hallway.

  She removed the unfashionable greatcoat and abandoned it on the floor. Later the magistrate could suspect that a man had committed the crime. She smoothed her ivory gown. Hopefully she would find stairs that would lead to the ballroom.

  She brushed her fingers against the wall, stopping when she came to an open space.

  Stairs.

  This was it. The last chance to change her mind. She could still grab her coat, button it up, and sneak out the way she’d come. Everyone would still be dining.

  Yet that was impossible.

  This was the Costantini family’s inheritance.

  Everyone dismissed the Italian peninsula as a compilation of romantic hilltops and the people as backwards and incapable of doing anything else except manage vineyards and the odd olive grove. It didn’t surprise her that the French ministers who’d been gifted the jewels by the jubilant army of peasants had ignored the forcefully worded letters from Italian solicitors demanding the jewels’ return, but Madeline would not permit the Costantini family to lose their heirlooms forever, no matter how fond the French ambassador’s wife was of parading in the stolen sapphires.

  Madeline was determined to retrieve the jewels, even if doing so involved entering a ball uninvited.

  She crept down the darkened staircase and stepped onto the landing. Torches flickered from rusting sconces and cast a gloomy light over the corridor.

  Voices sounded, the roughened noise denoting servants, and Madeline smoothed her dress. Flecks of dirt spattered on the shimmering material, and she lowered her hand to remove them.

  “What on earth are you doing?” A stern voice berated her.

  She righted immediately. A man dressed in footman’s livery scowled at her.

  “I’m lost.” Her voice shook naturally.

  “Young ladies do not get lost.”

  “Then they are more gifted in direction than I am.” She gave a helpless laugh, and the man’s shoulders relaxed a fraction.

  Unfortunately his eyes remained narrow. “Tell me if anyone is with you. Perhaps some man intent on defiling you?�
�

  “Nonsense.” She tossed her hair and gave him a regal glare. “Please tell me the way to the ballroom.”

  He frowned. “Downstairs and to your right. In the direction of the music. Not the kitchen.”

  She hastily descended the steps, before the servant might decide to verify her identity with the butler, or worse yet, the hostess.

  The music strengthened as she neared the second landing. Some guests clustered in the corridor, and she glided toward the ornate doors that could only denote the ballroom. Vibrant paintings in elaborate frames adorned the hallway, and she pushed away the familiar wave of sorrow.

  Instead she stepped inside the ballroom.

  At last.

  Men in elaborately tied cravats and woolen coats sipped brandy, older women in turbans gossiped with one another, and young women in pastel gowns with elaborate ruffled hems paraded the ballroom.

  Madeline inhaled. Her heart pounded, and she smoothed her hair again. Moisture dotted her brow, and she was certain her face must appear red, given the warmth that rushed through her body, but when she looked in the silver framed mirrors that lined the room, she appeared as normal as ever. If her hem was dirtier than normal, people would simply assume the journey from her carriage to the front entrance had been imperfect. At least her gown was well-cut, formed from expensive fabric that would make her blend in.

  She moved through the ballroom. If she appeared confident, no one would stop her. If anyone recognized her, they would not find her presence unusual. Baronesses were not an uncommon sighting at balls, even if most were more inclined to enjoy lemonade than reclaim jewels.

  The French Ambassador’s wife fluttered from the punch to the profiterole station, and her sapphire and diamond necklace sparkled under the eight-hour candles.

  I have her.

  Chapter Two

  Arthur Carmichael, Marquess of Bancroft, settled into an armchair at Whitehall and prepared for the familiar onslaught of praise. The past seven years had been a blur of commendations.

  “Ah, Bancroft.” Admiral Fitzroy entered the room. His once forceful stride had devolved into a waddle, and his distinguished salt and pepper hair had shifted to a consistent white. He placed some papers onto the table. “Let’s get started.”

  “We should wait for the prime minister,” Arthur reminded him.

  “Liverpool?” Admiral Fitzroy’s bushy eyebrows soared to a higher perch, and then he shook his head. “He won’t be joining us.”

  Arthur blinked.

  The prime minister always attended the meetings. Usually with some gold medal to flourish over Arthur’s shoulders. At times some simpering general, relieved at having been rescued, might accompany him. No journalist ever attended the meetings: spying was a secret occupation, no matter the success rate of Arthur’s missions.

  But now the dark paneled room that had always seemed majestic was nearly empty, and the heavy furniture seemed old-fashioned.

  Applause sounded from an adjoining room. Likely the prime minister was giving a laudatory speech on another person’s analysis on shipping tariffs. Or filing technique.

  “The war’s over, Bancroft. No need to huddle with him anymore. He has other things to concern himself with. The budget, and those returned veterans.” Admiral Fitzroy stretched. “We had a damned good run of it, didn’t we old boy?”

  Arthur stiffened. “I’m not old yet. Just experienced. Very experienced.” The “very” was perhaps superfluous, but he couldn’t have the person hiring any fresher sorts for the exciting jobs.

  Assuming there were still exciting jobs.

  The government seemed to have settled into a permanent nonchalance, unwilling to do much besides celebratory festivities now that Bonaparte was not forcing them into action.

  Arthur hesitated and tapped his fingers against his armrest. “I was thinking about being more active in the House of Lords. Lead one of the committees.”

  Life was good here, even though he had a decided preference for the more dangerous regions of the world.

  “Good lad,” Admiral Fitzroy said. “I was hoping you would suggest it.”

  “I aim to bring you pleasure,” Arthur said casually, but his heart leaped, as if it had mistaken itself for a horse and were attempting to jump a fence.

  This was good.

  Something was lacking in his life. Something…wonderful.

  Clearly it was a political career.

  “I could see you in the cabinet,” Admiral Fitzroy mused. “Perhaps even as foreign minister. We’ve a need for you there, Bancroft. It could be your crowning glory. Or…” He winked. “A stepping stone to PM.”

  Foreign minister.

  Prime minister.

  Arthur’s heart seemed to leap higher, as if seeking to replicate the athleticism of a prized racehorse, but he kept his expression neutral. He’d been trained to be calm, and he certainly wasn’t going to abandon that principle before the admiral.

  “You think I’m qualified,” Arthur said.

  “Pitt was PM at twenty-four,” the admiral reminded him. “And you have rather better social skills than he had. Politics is about personality, Bancroft.”

  “He was a scholar.”

  “As were you,” the admiral said. “I saw the Latin accolades next to your Cambridge diploma. Moreover—you’ve shown a clear ability to think on your feet. I’ll be honest with you, Bancroft. We need someone like you at the top. No one in government has traveled as much as you have. You’ve been privy to negotiations with all of our allies. And besides—it would make me proud to see you succeed.”

  “Oh.” Arthur was taken aback.

  The admiral wasn’t one for huge displays of emotion. One needed a cool head when deciding how best to defeat enemy fleets.

  “But,” the admiral said. “This is all hypothetical. You did an excellent job at maintaining your wild reputation. Regaling the regent at his beastly pavilion, stealing army officers’ helmets…”

  Arthur grinned. “Ah, the cartoonists adored that. They’d never drawn so many feathers before in their life.”

  “People will need to think you’ve reformed. You require a wife.”

  Arthur leaned back, and the leather upholstery of his chair squeaked.

  Marriage.

  He’d considered it once. He’d been younger. More naïve.

  Arthur had no moral objections to the marital institution. Lord knew he’d been through more trying occurrences than slipping a piece of metal on his finger.

  But for some reason the thought of courting somebody, of being tied to some woman forever, gave him a queasy feeling.

  Nausea, no matter how feeble, was a state Arthur preferred to avoid.

  The prospect of marrying somebody compelled him to think of the person whom he’d once actually desired to wed. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life comparing his wife with the woman who’d gotten her uncle to break off their courtship.

  Since then, he’d never felt the urge to marry. Life as a spy differed from that of a man who’d attained domestic bliss, and he hadn’t been tortured from images of what might have been. Thwarting Frenchmen directing épées at him rather succeeded in keeping him in the present.

  “Did you have someone in mind?” Arthur’s voice sounded hoarse, and he cleared his throat.

  “Perhaps you can join my family for a dinner party sometime. You might find romance there.”

  Arthur’s stomach sank. The admiral had hinted at Arthur’s suitability for his niece, Miss Theodosia Fitzroy, before.

  Miss Fitzroy, though charming in her fashion, had only just debuted. She’d been sheltered from hardship. Arthur had listened to her ponderings on weather patterns politely, learning of her preference for sun over rain, but she’d hardly stirred emotion in him.

  No.

  He shook his head.

  Undoubtedly the admiral was exaggerating the necessity of marital ties. Perhaps the admiral was more prone to hyperbole now that he could not discuss saving humanity from cata
strophe on a daily basis.

  “I always enjoy the opportunity to meet with you,” Arthur said. “Though perhaps I should remind you that Pitt never married. You seemed quite inclined to praise him.”

  Disappointment flittered across the admiral’s face. “You must keep in mind that people are less forgiving these days. They’re tired of having a regent who orders architects and city planners to create his fantasies with public funds. People are embarrassed at the regent’s indulgence in drink and his insatiable desire for sugary delights. They despair at his drunken tirades against his wife and his open taking of most unsuitable mistresses.”

  “Yet Pitt was much admired.”

  The admiral shook his head. “This is peace time, Bancroft. The rules are sadly different. It’s difficult to distract them with news of overseas. You’ve seen all those temperance societies running about. One has to do something to counteract the regent’s excesses. The people don’t want to think their leaders are regaling when they cannot afford bread, and the broadsheets might decide to reprint those ghastly cartoons of you tossing helmets into the harbor with a glee not seen since Bostonians tackled tea.”

  “I simply have no desire to marry,” Arthur said.

  The admiral frowned. “I forgot. We do have something for you to work on.”

  Arthur blinked. The admiral was not the type of man to forget things.

  Admiral Fitzroy seemed unconcerned with his memory lapse, and smiled. “You will even have to leave the country.”

  Arthur straightened. Would they send him back to the West Indies? He had a preference for the sun, one that was becoming clearer after spending the season in London.

  Admiral Fitzroy removed a pamphlet from his folder. Women in pastel colored frocks posed beside looping letters describing their attire. The admiral flicked though the pages, and Arthur blinked.

  “Is that Matchmaking for Wallflowers?” Arthur asked.

  “Ah, you know it. One of my wife’s favorites.”

  Arthur gave a polite smile. “I thought the magazine was irrelevant after the scandal with one of the editors.”