Marblestone Mansion, Book 5 Read online

  Marblestone Mansion

  Book 5

  (Scandalous Duchess Series)

  By

  Marti Talbott

  © all rights reserved

  Cover art by Book Cover Art

  Editor: Frankie Sutton

  Table of Contents

  More Marti Talbott Books

  CHAPTER 1

  She looked especially beautiful, having found the right powder to make her skin look less pale, and a maid at the hotel willing to pile her long, black hair on her head just so. The duchess even managed to get extra sleep, so her blue eyes would sparkle under the glow of the magnificent ballroom chandeliers. Her floor-length, silk gown, bought for her by Solicitor John Crisp, was the same blue as her eyes, and was cut low enough to display the fullness of her bosom.

  The hour was fashionably late when she put on her blue dancing slippers, and then went down the stairs to greet the man who agreed to take her to London’s first ball of the season. It had been too long since her last ball, and she couldn’t wait to be seen and admired by people of her supposed equal. Word was, King Edward was expected to make an appearance, and that was the one man she dreamed of becoming better acquainted with.

  Securing an escort who held a coveted invitation, wasn’t easy. In fact, she had to threaten to expose her affair with a married man, before he would agree to help her find a suitable gentleman. She supposed nearly every married man in London society had a little adventure on the side, except her fourth husband, the prudish Hannish MacGreagor. He was so green in the ways of a great society, the thought of bedding a woman not his wife, would never cross his mind. He was also the husband who so cruelly ripped away her rightful title, that of duchess, by giving his title to his younger brother. Fortunately, Hannish was thousands of miles away and could not interfere with her reintroduction into society.

  Of course, there was Lady Bayington’s threat to expose her propensity to marry without being divorced or widowed, but the duchess went by a name unfamiliar to the rest of society, and by nefarious means, learned the Bayingtons were not planning to attend this ball.

  Everything was absolutely perfect.

  Yet, when she descended the hotel stairs, the man who waited for her was not the one she expected. He said something no one else heard, and she happily agreed to go with him. It was not until he helped her into a carriage, and then closed the door without getting in, that she realized she’d been had. The dark shadows hid him well, and at first, she could not see the face of the man seated across from her. The carriage abruptly began to move, and as the lamplight exposed his face, her jaw dropped.

  “Liam?”

  He did not answer, and if she was not terrified before, she was now. His smile was sinister, and his eyes had a fiery fierceness she had never seen in him before. He was the husband no one knew about. She did not mention him – not even when she bared her soul to Solicitor Crisp. It was Liam who taught her how easy it was to marry, and then run away with as much wealth as she could carry. Liam was also the one man who would likely kill her…if he ever found her.

  “Where are you taking me?” she hesitantly asked.

  “Home.”

  “To Ireland?”

  Again, he did not answer – there was no need, for his castle in Ireland was his home, and had been the home of his ancestors for many generations. Indeed, he came from a long line of great Irishmen, who lived well and chose the loveliest of brides, none of whom ever ran off. That is, until he married Catherin Kincaid, the woman seated across from him. She stayed less than a month and to his broken heart, Catherin added such enormous scarring to his pride and dignity, that he would not, indeed could not, ever recover. As the weeks, months and years passed, he became a recluse filled with bitterness and a need for revenge. He was steadfastly determined, and he never stopped sending his faithful servant out to search for her.

  Now he had her, she was his, and he would make certain she never ran off again.

  *

  Solicitor John Crisp sat in his London office, strumming his fingers on the cleaned and polished desk. He had not seen his new secretary in three days, and he was none too pleased about it. “There ought to be a law,” he mumbled to no one but himself. Indeed, the place was much cleaner than it had been in years, but finding everything quickly had already become a challenge. Furthermore, he was forced to brew his own pot of tea, a menial task far beneath the dignity of any barrister. Other than that, the loss of the Irishman,Adam Sweeney, was not all that disappointing. Sweeney was an odd duck, who was somewhat intimidating with dark eyes that matched his well-groomed dark hair. He wore a pointed goatee to cover a pointed chin, and was dressed well enough, Crisp supposed, but Sweeney had very little in the way of enjoyable conversation.

  Crisp checked his appointment calendar, discovered he only had one client scheduled, and stroked the new beard he was growing to disguise his appearance. He was getting on in years, and no one knew that better than he, but even he was surprised to see so many gray hairs in his beard. Then again, it did match his graying hair, which he thought made him look quite distinguished.

  A new pile of handwritten pages sat on the corner of his desk. Forced to begin again after his first manuscript was stolen, he now carried the pages to work and back each day, just to make certain it wasn’t taken a second time. It was, of course, a full accounting of the many husbands of the former Duchess of Glenartair. He named his first book, The Scandalous Affairs of Alexandra Sinclair, and he favored that titled, but he was not sure he should use it again. Certain powerful men might recognize the title in a newspaper or shop after publication, and he needed all the time he could get to leave the country.

  For weeks, he sat with the duchess in his modest home parlor, and took notes as the strikingly beautiful Alexandra explained her exploits in great detail. There was, however, one event she neglected to share, and that involved how she came up with the idea to commit bigamy in the first place? He tried not to question her in that regard often, but he was convinced it would add a delightful tidbit to the glory of the book. Yet, she balked at the idea of explaining, and it was apparent she had something to hide. According to their agreement, they would collaborate on the book, and then share the profits. He saw no problem with that; it was only fair. Nevertheless, he decided if she did not answer the question, he would threaten to pull out of the deal.

  Unfortunately, he had not seen her in three days either.

  Crisp spent an exasperating fortune on her ball gown, jewelry and slippers, and he should have known the temptation to sell the jewels and run off would be too great. By now, Alexandra could be anywhere. Her sudden disappearance was immensely disappointing. He was just beginning to write the chapter concerning her latest husband, and it was the most scandalous marriage of all. Alexandra actually fell in love for the first time, and married a notorious Colorado train robber. The shootout between authorities and the train robber resulted in his death, and every detail was in all the London papers. Such a delicious accounting of their love and loss, would lend superb credibility to the book. Was she there? Did she hold him in her arms as he died? Now, the world might never know.

  It occurred to Crisp that there might be a connection between the two sudden disappearances. Yet, his secretary was not wealthy and not even very handsome; at least Crisp didn’t think so. Besides, to expect a woman to turn away from collecting rich husbands was, “Utter nonsense,” he said out loud.

  “What is utter nonsense?” said a man standing in the doorway between Crisp’s inner and outer offices.

  “Good heavens, I did not hear you come in.”

  “I am Fletcher Garrott,” he said, walking to John’s desk and extending his hand. “I believe I ha
ve an appointment.”

  John stood up, took the man’s hand and admired his firm grip. “Ah yes, Solicitor John Crisp, at your service. Do sit down.” He waited for his newest client to find a chair, and then seated himself. Next, he removed his wire-rimmed glasses and set them in the middle of his desk. A tall, slender man, Fletcher Garrott was dressed well enough to fit into London’s high society, which greatly impressed the solicitor. “What can I do for you?”

  “It is rather sticky business, I am afraid.”

  “Have you killed someone?”

  Garrott was not smiling when he answered, “Not yet, but it is not out of the question.”

  John smiled, hoping to lighten his new client’s mood a little. “I know the feeling well. Tell me, what grievance have you?”

  “I have been quite handily lied about, which caused me to lose employment.”

  “Lied about? By whom?”

  “Viscount Richardson.”

  John Crisp stared into the stranger’s eyes for a long moment. He always loved the opportunity to legally challenge men with titles, and although the title of Viscount was among the lowest in the Kingdom, it still represented old money. “Viscount Richardson?”

  “You know him?”

  “Only in passing. Precisely what has he done?”

  “In my line of work, I am paid by certain prominent men to see what their wives are up to. I...”

  “You are a private investigator?”

  “I am, or rather was. I worked for Cartworth and Cartworth.”

  “Ah, yes, Cartworth and Cartworth?” John wrinkled his brow. “Never heard of them.”

  “I am not surprised, they service only the wealthy.”

  “I see. Precisely what did Viscount Richardson do?”

  “His wife was seen in a place of ill repute, and he asked the agency to discover who she met there.”

  “And did you discover it?”

  “I did,” Garrott proudly admitted, “but when I gave my report, Viscount Richardson said it was preposterous. He claimed I was lying and demanded I be let go.”

  “Whom did she meet there?”

  “A rogue far beneath her rank in society. If she had met a gentleman, I would not have been accused of lying.”

  “A point well taken.”

  “Mr. Crisp, I fear I cannot pay until after you win my case.”

  “I see.” It was not the first client who could not pay, and he found it most annoying. However, in this instance, he had an idea. “How long have you worked as an investigator?”

  “Six years.”

  “Six years, yes, that will do. Just now, I am in need of an investigator. Are you interested?”

  Garrott’s sour mood quickly improved. “I am indeed.”

  Crisp needed a moment to collect his thoughts. Alexandra had used so many different names and married so many different husbands, explaining would not be easy. Nevertheless, he put his glasses back on and began. “The woman I wish you to find is…”

  *

  Hannish MacGreagor, an unusually tall and handsome man with dark wavy hair and bright blue eyes, turned the heads of more than one woman as he boarded a Denver train bound for New York City. What they failed to see was the wife on his arm – a wife with auburn curls and dimples, who would put up with no nonsense from any of them.

  Initially, the MacGreagors hoped to take their friends, the Whitfields, and several of their servants with them, but in the end, they only took Egan to watch over their toddler son, Justin. No one was happier to be going back to Scotland than Egan MacGreagor.

  The train ride in their private Pullman compartments seemed to fly by, particularly with Egan determined to read every newspaper he could get his hands on. The youngest of all the Scots to arrive at Marblestone Mansion in Colorado Springs, Colorado, Egan had a stocky build and blond hair. At each stop, no matter the shortness of the layover, Egan hopped off the train for no reason other than to locate the nearest newspaper stand. Twice, and with a hand up from Hannish each time, he managed to get back on the train just as it was pulling away.

  “Lad, are you certain you can find Scotland on your own?” Hannish asked, having pulled his footman up the steps once more.

  Egan handed Hannish the newspapers, straightened his uniform jacket, took the papers back and grinned. “I can find her with me eyes closed, Mr. Hannish.”

  Hannish turned around and headed back down the narrow hallway to his compartment. “You might have to.”

  “Rotten eggs,” Egan muttered behind him.

  “What?”

  “These are the same as the ones I bought this morning.”

  Hannish chuckled and opened the door to his compartment. “As I said, the papers come from the east, and are taken west. You’ll not likely find fresh ones until we see Chicago.”

  With Egan around, Hannish and Leesil had no need to read the papers. He happily recounted what he read, which sparked several lively conversations over cards each evening. Most noteworthy was the discovery that the dreaded Yellow Fever disease was actually spread by mosquitoes; that Thomas Edison would not be allowed to own all the talky pictures, and that a company by the name of Texaco, hoped to provide the United Stated with ample petro for automobiles. Neither Egan nor Hannish could wait to get their hands on an automobile.

  *

  “Mr. MacGreagor,” Egan said opening the door to their Pullman compartment, “I have happily found a forth for cards. May I introduce, Miss Ann Sutherland?” He stood aside and let them see the pretty woman in her early twenties with chestnut hair and brown eyes.

  Hannish tried to stand up without hitting his head again on the pull down berth above. The large private compartment came with many advantages, including extra pillows and blankets, more room for luggage, a wardrobe, a toilet, and wide, comfortable sofas on either side of a table. A porter changed the sheets each morning, brought their drinks and meals, and saw to their every need. It just didn’t have quite enough room for Hannish to easily stand up.

  “Miss Sutherland, ‘tis a pleasure. Please join us. This is my wife, Leesil, and our son sleeps over there.” Hannish pointed to a bed.

  “The pleasure is mine, Mr. and Mrs. MacGreagor.” She glanced at the sleeping child, and then quickly took a seat across from Leesil on the sofa so Hannish could sit. “I understand you are fond of playing poker, Mr. MacGreagor.”

  It was their last full night on the train and Leesil was happy for the diversion. Counting the hours until she could see her sister again was driving her to distraction. “Indeed, they both do. I expect you to beat them quite soundly, for I never can.”

  Ann smiled and then half whispered. “Have they any money?”

  While Egan sat next to Ann, Leesil whispered back, “They claim to, but far be it for me to say for certain.”

  “Gentlemen, poker it is,” Ann said.

  Leesil watched their new acquaintance pull a deck of cards out of the pocket of her fashionable red skirt, expertly shuffle and then deal the cards. “‘Tis not your first game, I see.”

  “Hardly,” Ann answered. “My father taught me to play as a child.”

  “You are English?”

  “I was born in London and am on my way home from California. Have you seen California?”

  “Not yet, but we mean to go soon,” Hannish answered, picking up his cards.

  “It is a bit warm for my liking,” said Ann.

  “No warmer than Colorado in August, I wager,” said Egan.

  First Hannish, then Egan, and then Ann, discarded their unwanted cards. All three of them stared at a deeply engrossed Leesil, who hemmed and hawed several times.

  “Mrs. MacGreagor, ‘tis your turn,” Hannish said at length.

  With a grin on her face, Leesil said, “Gin,” and spread her cards on the table.

  Hannish rolled his eyes. “‘Tis poker, not rummy.”

  “But I have finally got the perfect rummy hand.”

  Egan laughed. “Aye, after you took the ones Mr. MacGreagor
discarded.” When he looked, Egan was convinced Ann wasn’t sure if Leesil was clever or stupid. “She is jokin’,” he finally said.

  “They cheat,” said Leesil. “We lasses must constantly keep them on their toes.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Hannish protested. “‘Tis you who cheats.”

  “You cannae prove it, can you,” Leesil shot back. She dismissed the delighted grin on her husband’s face and turned to Ann. “My deal?”

  Ann couldn’t help but smile. “Indeed,” she said, helping Leesil gather the cards and then handing her the rest of the deck. Leesil’s expertise at shuffling and dealing was impressive too. “‘Tis not your first game either, I see.”

  “We play all the time,” Leesil answered. “I hardly ever win, particularly against the footmen.”

  “She lets us win,” Egan muttered.

  “You are a footman?” asked Ann.

  “The best footman a lad ever did have,” Hannish said, carefully watching Leesil deal. “Poker, Mrs. MacGreagor, poker.”

  “I know, I only want one extra card.”

  If there remained any ice to be broken, Leesil managed to break it. Ann burst out laughing and before long, there were tears in her eyes. A poker game with the MacGreagors was not going to be an ordinary game. Throughout the rest of the evening, Ann won…consistently, but not without a lot of laughter, especially each time Leesil caught Hannish passing money under the table to Egan.

  CHAPTER 2

  Carrying a small satchel, Malveen MacGreagor stepped out of the carriage and stared at the magnificent Glenartair Castle. In the Scottish tradition, the castle had four watchtowers, one on each corner of the three-story structure, and each tower had high, cone shaped roofs. A protruding entrance in the middle of the castle had two smaller towers, one on each side. Behind her, the circular stone planter was filled with sweet-smelling roses of every imaginable color, and beside the castle, a second well-manicured garden held a variety of flowers. Attached to the other side of the castle was a structure used to house carriages, and the equipment needed to keep the grass in the forest lined, long, wide glen clipped and beautiful.