“Even the ugly cat?” Clem asked Mary.
The marquis’s aunt gestured vaguely. “I forget.”
“So you see, my lady, if we do not put this nonsense to bed, my aunt’s stepchildren will continue to squabble and even if they do not win, they shall ensure my aunt does not have access to her due income for years to come.”
Clem nodded slowly. “I see.” She looked to Mary who perched upon the edge of her seat. She could trust the marquis’s word—a man who had proved himself a liar over and over—or she could do what her cousin begged of her and aid a woman in need. If Albert was indeed alive, then Mary would no longer be in need anyway.
“Well, we had best get to the bottom of this business sooner rather than later then.”
Smiling broadly, Mary nodded approvingly. The marquis’s scowl turned so thunderous Clem tensed every muscle in her body. She’d awoken something terrible, and she had no doubt she would feel the full weight of his wrath.
She eased out a tremulous breath. What a fine job it was she was not scared of him one jot.
∞∞∞
Damn it all.
Here was a woman from a family so shameless, they’d been thrown out of London by the Prince Regent himself. Why did Roman think dealing with her would be simple? With parents as eccentric as hers, of course she would revel in her aunt’s tales of husbands back from the dead.
“Lady Clementine—”
“It’s Clem, actually. No one calls me Clementine.” A shudder rippled through her shoulders, making the delicate gold pointing around her neck tremble.
Roman resisted a smile worthy of an evil villain in a gothic novel. She hated her full name. Excellent. “Lady Clementine,” he said firmly. “This is a private matter and should be dealt with by those with discretion.”
“I have discretion.” She rose from the chair, cheeks reddening.
“Now, Roman—”
He ignored his aunt’s flapping hands and came to stand too. Standing was good. It was that much closer to the young woman being out of his aunt’s house. All he needed now was a few more steps and he could shut the door on her and banish her from this house just as she’d been banished from London.
“I rather think there are several people in London who might say otherwise,” he countered.
“Nothing that occurred that Season wasmyfault and…” She thrust a finger his way.
He glanced at the end of the fingertip and scowled, spying a callus upon the end of it. Why would a lady have callused fingertips?
Why did he care?
“One of thoseincidentswas most certainly your fault.”
Heat roared through him, he bunched fists at his side, grating each syllable through clenched teeth. “How many times do I have to tell you, that had nothing to do with me.”
“You were with my brother all evening.” Lady Clementine ticked off a finger. “You were seen providing him with drinks.” Another finger, also slightly callused. “You were even holding his waistcoat.”
“I wastryingto make him drink a lemonade,” he said tightly. “And he flung the waistcoat at me.”
What was it with this family and refusing to take responsibility for anything? Was it his fault her whelp of a brother had never drunk ale before?
“I have better things to do with my time, my lady, than to be encouraging young men to get naked and climb monuments.” Roman moved closer, keeping his posture as commanding as possible.
“It was a statue, actually.”
Not even the faintest flicker of fear. Was he losing his touch? Would no one ever be intimidated by him again? One did not successfully restore one’s family name by being soft and appeasing. He’d have to try harder.
“Your brother is a man, my lady, and his conduct was entirely of his own doing.”
Lady Clementine skipped her gaze over him. “Yes, well, you may purport to be some sort of a man—”