Once Upon a Marquess (The Worth Saga 1)

“There you are,” Christian said. “Kill the sandwich. Kill it as if it were me. Rend it to pieces.”

She took another vicious bite of chicken curry. “Your sandwich,” she said after she swallowed, “tastes like victory.”

“Kill it,” he said. “Kill it dead.”

She took another bite.

Just as she was chewing, he leaned toward her. “Who is England’s greatest chicken-curry killer?”

She looked up at him, her eyes widening. He didn’t give her time to react. He whispered, “You are.”

It happened so swiftly. She laughed first. Then she choked, and then she spat out little bits of bread and chewed chicken.

“Christian.” She put one hand over her face and fumbled in her pocket with the other. “I hate you.”

“There you are.” He handed her a handkerchief. “Never trust me. Let your guard down once, and next thing you know, you’ll have curry chicken up your nose.”

“I think,” she said, “you may very well be the worst person in the world.”

He bowed at the waist and took up the reins again. “At your service.”

Judith had spent almost two years under her uncle’s care. Odd, that she should have to use chicanery now to obtain entrance. But the butler took Christian’s card and ushered her in as his guest.

“Lord Ashford,” the butler said. “Lady Ashford.”

Her entire soul twitched at that designation, but she did not correct his mistake.

This place seemed so odd and yet so familiar. She’d skipped through these halls when she was seventeen and her father had gone abroad as part of the ambassadorial attaché. She’d never really noticed that the entry table was marble and mahogany. She’d paid no mind to the golden urn, higher than her head, that graced it, or the crystal chandelier that was lowered and lit every evening, so it might sparkle with the light of a hundred sweet-scented beeswax candles.

Back then, her uncle’s house had seemed like just a normal, ordinary house to her. These sorts of riches had been expected. There had been no such thing as unpolished wood or banisters that creaked dangerously if you put any weight on them. She’d never thought about how much work she’d made for the servants when she tracked dirt in on the Turkish carpets.

This had been what her life looked like: clean, rich, bright, and unexamined.

She sat on the sofa next to Christian and inhaled. Lemon polish; apple blossoms. Everything here smelled perfectly fresh. This was what her uncle had offered, what Judith had turned down. It was what Camilla had, and Judith could only hope her sister was happy. That they might easily resolve her uncle’s role in all of this.

She heard his footsteps coming down the hall. Her uncle entered the room all smiles.

The wisps of hair Judith remembered had faded to baldness, but he was still serious and polite.

Christian stood to greet him.

“Lord Ashford.” Her uncle shook Christian’s hand enthusiastically. “Always good to see you. You’re very welcome to drop by any time you find yourself passing through Farnborough; no reason to wait for business to rear its head. And you said you’d have someone with you. This must be…”

Uncle William—no, she needed to think of him as Viscount Hawley—turned to Judith. He frowned.

“This is…” He must have placed her features then, a few seconds too late. He jumped back as if stung. “Oh, dear Lord. It’s Judith.”

Christian didn’t miss a beat. “Yes. Oh-dear-Lord-it’s-Judith. My favorite Judith, to tell the truth. Far better than good-heavens-Judith, or Judith-my-ar—”

Judith cleared her throat. “Lord Ashford,” she said a little too loudly, “and I have visited for some informational purposes. We thought you might be of assistance.”

Her uncle swallowed and looked back and forth between the two of them. He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at his head, perhaps realizing that he’d been ambushed.

She had pondered for hours, wondering how best to phrase her question.

I’m sorry to raise a crass matter of finances, Uncle, but I suspect you have embezzled the funds that I had rightfully earned, was not the way she wanted to start the conversation.

“We have come to request your assistance on a little matter,” she finally said. “I wanted to talk with you about Lady Theresa’s guardianship.”

He shook his head vehemently. “You know I don’t want anything to do with that girl. You keep her.”

She tried not to blink.

“You can try to convince me she’s reformed—but that girl is a…a…” He gave a little shudder. “Your pardon; she is your sister. But if you’re trying to pawn her off on me? No.”

It wasn’t him. She doubted he could have feigned that little shiver, as if Theresa had sent a brigade of cats running over his grave. Judith tried another tack. “But if I were to seek out someone else as guardian, who might I consider? Surely you’ve talked to someone in the family…”

He shrugged. “I have no idea. Honestly, I do not. Nobody else would be willing.”

“No?” Perhaps there was another way to get at the matter. She had thought about it and thought about it. Mr. Ennis had said he might answer Lady Camilla’s questions in person. So…

“I also thought we might visit with my sister. Is Lady Camilla present?” Judith hadn’t realized that her heart was aching until she asked the question.

It has been so many years. They’d argued when Camilla said she wanted to go to her uncle.

He’s stuffy. He doesn’t love us, Judith had said.

I won’t starve, Camilla had shot back.

Fine. Have your wealth and your gowns. If you don’t want to be loved, we don’t want to love you. Those had been the last words she’d spoken to her sister. Afterward, Judith had written and written, taking back those words over and over. I was wrong, Camilla. I lied. I love you. I will always love you.

Camilla had never answered.

Her uncle’s smile grew pained. “Uh. Well. As to that. Um.” He scratched his head. “I’m sorry, m’dear. My hearing is not what it once was. Could you repeat yourself?”

“Yes, of course.” She leaned closer and raised her voice. “I should love to see my sister, Lady Camilla.”

Her throat was closing. Years of letters, all disappearing into the post with no reply. No word, no explanation, not even a “never speak to me again.” She was nineteen now, surely on the verge of coming out.

“It has been an age,” Judith said. “I would dearly love…” God, she would dearly love to know her sister might one day forgive her.

She hadn’t known how much she wanted to see her sister until she said the words. Eight years was long enough that the coltish, long-legged adolescent in her memories would have transformed into a beautiful lady. Camilla would have had every opportunity growing up in Viscount Hawley’s household. Why, maybe the scandal wouldn’t dog her. Much.

“Ah.” Her uncle took out a handkerchief and rubbed his head. “I had rather thought you asked that. Well. Hm. So.”

The longing in Judith’s chest shifted into full-blown anguish, a wanting that seemed all the more keen for its aching.

Her worst fears rose up. “Does she not want to see me? Surely a short visit would not be…so terrible for her?”

“Well, that’s the thing.” Her uncle gave her an uneasy smile. “She is, uh, not here. At the moment.”

All of Judith’s hopes deflated. Of course she would be gone. Judith had been out of society so long she’d forgotten what it was like. There would be house parties in the summer; eligible young ladies would be off visiting. Camilla might not have come out in London society, bu

t under the circumstances it would be more sensible for her to take on polite society in small pieces as preparation. Judith should have realized it.

“Of course,” Judith said. “Can you tell me when she will return?”

The handkerchief squished in her uncle’s hands. “Ah. Um. You see, we are…not entirely expecting her to do so.”

This information hit Judith like an arrow. “Is she ill? Is she married?”

“No, no,” her uncle said. He did not meet her gaze. “Not that I know, at any rate. It was just…ah, you see, for the first weeks or so, she was a lovely, biddable child. But you know young ladies, eh? They do chatter and ask questions. And, um, sometimes cut up the peace, and I’m not the age I once was. Which is to say, do you remember my second cousin, James Rollins?”

“No.” Judith was beginning to feel faintly horrified.

“Well,” the viscount continued. “He lives in the Peak District. I can give you his direction if you like. He had two daughters who were around Camilla’s age. We got to talking once, and, uh, we all agreed that your sister would be so much better off with them.”

“Did you.” Judith’s voice sounded as if it were coming from very far away. She had come here thinking that her uncle might have taken over guardianship of her sisters, her brother. That he might have done so for so foolish a sum as the several hundred pounds she’d laid aside for them. She should have seen it from the moment she walked in the door. He had a marble table set with a golden urn in his front entry. He had a crystal chandelier that was worth more than all she’d managed to set aside in the eight years since her father had passed way.

His morals might allow him to abscond with her sisters’ money, but to him, it would be like stooping to pick a penny off the ground—unworthy of his time and attention.

As for the guardianship of her sisters? She’d imagined everyone would want the task, treasuring it as she did.

Her uncle had abdicated it altogether.