A Scoundrel By Moonlight. Anna Campbell

downfall.

      As Dorothy had promised, discovering the location of the marquess’s family seat had been easy. It had also been surprisingly easy finding employment as a housemaid.

      She’d set herself a daunting task, but she’d made a promise to someone she loved—and she was angry. The idea of this devil ruining more innocent girls like Dorothy made her want to scream with rage. She’d left Mearsall to seek the diary and other evidence of Lord Leath’s sins. If she failed in Yorkshire, she’d find work in his house in London and continue her quest there. However long it took, she’d make him pay for his crimes.

      But now that she’d met the marquess, nothing seemed so clear-cut. After that oddly charged encounter downstairs, her heart still galloped like a wild horse—and her mind whirled with bewilderment.

      Dear heaven, when his wicked lordship had locked the door, she’d nearly collapsed with horror. She was alone in the middle of the night with a lecherous monster. She’d never imagined that her quest might involve physical risk.

      Cursing her naivety, she’d prepared to fight off the hulking brute.

      Then the marquess had confounded every fear. Apart from catching her to stop her escape, he hadn’t touched her.

      Which was … puzzling. And troubling.

      She’d sensed his interest. At twenty-five, she wasn’t a green girl, and she knew what it meant when a male leveled that prickling, intense concentration on a woman. Yet he’d kept his distance and remained remarkably polite, given her barely concealed insolence.

      In her mind, Lord Leath had always been a caricature of a villain. But tonight, once she’d realized that he wouldn’t leap on her—and she’d realized quickly despite that unwelcome awareness—he’d proven much more real. And much more alarming.

      Immediately she’d noted his cleverness, his calmness, his confidence. All worked against her. The man in the portrait in his mother’s apartments was big and powerful, with a personality that threatened to burst from the frame.

      In the flesh, he’d been … more.

      He wasn’t a pretty man, by any means. But there was beauty in that tall, strong body and that craggy, individual face with its beak of a nose and heavy black brows. No wonder Dorothy had been smitten.

      Still, Nell had expected more overt charm, a Lothario from a play, all smooth words and false compliments. She couldn’t picture this man filling a girl’s head with nonsense until she spread her legs.

      These riddles gave her a headache. And she faced a day’s work and, if she could evade the marquess, a night’s searching.

      Hope staged an uncertain return. Perhaps Leath’s unexpected arrival was more blessing than curse. Perhaps Nell hadn’t yet found the diary because this dedicated seducer kept his record of ruin with him.

      If so, the diary was now at Alloway Chase.

      “Darling, I didn’t know you’d come home.” From the chaise longue, Leath’s mother extended her hands toward him.

      He hated to see his mother’s health deteriorate to a point where she spent most days in her apartments. At least his rustication meant that he could devote more time to her. Guiltily he realized that he hadn’t been home since his sister Sophie’s hurried wedding last May. Parliamentary business had been pressing, as had his need to rise above the scandals engulfing his family.

      “I got in late last night.” He took his mother’s hands and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You look well.”

      It wasn’t true, but it was less of a lie than last time they’d met. The gray morning light through the large windows was stark on her thin body. But her cheeks held a hint of color and her eyes were brighter than he’d seen them in years.

      “I’m feeling better.” She indicated a chair, inviting him to stay. “How long are you here?”

      “Until people can say the Fairbrother name without a sneer,” he said flatly. He supposed that he’d learn to accept his exile, although at least with his mother he needn’t hide his bitterness.

      She frowned. “I’d hoped the brouhaha about your uncle might blow over by now. After all, it’s a year since he shot himself to escape a hanging.”

      A year in which everyone had eyed Leath as if afraid he might resort to violence and larceny the way his odious Uncle Neville had. A year in which Leath’s every political plan had fallen foul of some opponent mentioning the Fairbrothers’ infamous criminal tendencies. A family flaw only widely recognized since his uncle’s exposure as a thief and murderer. Thanks to Camden Rothermere, the damned meddling Duke of Sedgemoor, the whole world knew about Neville Fairbrother’s crimes.

      For months, Leath had been furious at Sedgemoor and his cronies. Only gradually had he admitted that ultimate blame for the family’s straits lay with Lord Neville.

      That was little satisfaction when another snide comment in the House of Lords topped one of Leath’s speeches with jeering laughter. For years, the Marquess of Leath had been the most powerful personality in parliament, his progress to the premiership taken for granted. The gossip now dogging him gratified his enemies—and a disappointing number of people he’d counted as friends. He was cynical enough to recognize that the world loved to witness an ambitious man’s fall. But recognition made it no more pleasant to be that man.

      “You forget Sophie,” he said grimly, rising and prowling toward the window, too restless to sit when reviewing his recent disasters.

      His sister had set tongues wagging afresh when she’d eloped with a penniless younger son who happened to be Sedgemoor’s brother-in-law. Sophie’s timing had been calamitous for Leath’s political hopes. The whole world now considered Fairbrother a synonym for flibbertigibbet. Or scoundrel.

      Neither adjective befitted a future prime minister.

      His mother looked troubled. “She’s safely married now, and you and Sedgemoor united to approve the match.”

      Much against Leath’s inclination, he’d offered the runaways what countenance he could. He and Sedgemoor had even patched up their feud, at least in public. They were never likely to be friends, but Leath no longer itched to punch His Grace’s supercilious nose.

      Whatever measures both families had taken, they couldn’t contain the scandal. Especially as it followed so closely on the heels of his uncle’s disgrace. Even worse, Sophie had jilted Lord Desborough, one of England’s most powerful men, and as a result his lordship had shifted from Leath’s greatest ally to his implacable foe. “My political career still hangs in the balance, Mamma.”

      He turned to see her raising a frail hand to her lips. “James, I’m sorry.”

      Damn it. His chagrin got the better of him. Upsetting his mother was the last thing he wanted. He wasn’t himself this morning. And he knew who to blame. A housemaid! He had bats in his belfry.

      “At the moment, the party powerbrokers consider me more hindrance than asset. I’m to retire to my estates, keep my head down and my nose clean, and reappear once the world has had time to forget the gossip.”

      “That’s unfair. None of this is your fault. Your uncle was an out-and-out rogue. Your father banned him from the house after he got that poor girl into trouble.”

      Leath had been a boy when his uncle had raped a maid. “Perhaps Uncle Neville’s crimes aren’t my responsibility, but Sophie was,” he said heavily.

      “At least she’s happy.”

      Her voice indicated that Sophie’s happiness hardly counted, compared to the damage she’d done to her brother’s career. His mother had married the late marquess, expecting to be a political hostess and eventually wife to the prime minister. After a carriage accident crippled his father in his forties, her hopes had focused on her then twenty-year-old son. For the final eight years of his father’s life and the four since, Leath had devoted himself to fulfilling