My Favorite Marquess. Alexandra Bassett

There’s not much you can do to help us, then.”

      Violet felt her face go red. “Help you? I would think that you would be concerned, rather, at saving the citizens in your charge from being terrorized by such a ruffian.”

      “The government is also concerned with the smuggling, ma’am.”

      “So there are a few bottles of brandy hidden away in caves,” Violet argued. “Is that the end of the world?”

      The constable’s gray eyes remained pinned on her. “Was there brandy in your cave, then?”

      Violet’s jaw hung slack for a moment as she attempted to form a reply. Naturally she did not want word getting out that she had been swilling liquor in a cave all night. Though of course that was better than having them know she was frolicking under a blanket with the Brute…

      “I saw a half-empty cask,” she said, swallowing. “Barely worth mentioning.”

      “And yet you did mention it.”

      She bristled. “I simply don’t understand how the law can care more for smuggled goods than for the safety of people.”

      “Hear, hear.” Hennie agreed. “She could have been killed.”

      The constable raised a furry brow. “Aye? I’m more apt to think the Brute had met his match.” He wheezed out a laugh at his own joke.

      Violet took a bracing sip of tea. Horrid man.

      He finally stood. “Then you canna tell me where the Brute got off to?”

      “No,” she said.

      “Or what the boat looked like that you saw in the cove?”

      “I’m sorry. I only saw a light.”

      “Perhaps you could show us this cave.”

      Her heart beat frantically. The cave! What if they went to the cave and they found evidence of the possible debauchery of her night with Robert the Brute? The blanket, the brandy, the candle…there might have been other evidence of the Brute’s presence there that she hadn’t noticed. What could she answer to all the questions that would surely be put to her?

      Then again, what if they found information there that actually led to the Brute’s capture?

      Her first thought at that possibility was entirely selfish. What tales the man could tell on her! Her reputation would be in tatters.

      Also, if he was caught, they would hang him.

      To her surprise, the thought of her abductor swinging from a yardarm did not bring her the slightest pleasure. Indeed, her heart leapt in panic at the very thought. They could not catch him.

      What madness! Of course she did not care what became of such a one as he. They could hang the man twenty times before she would shed a tear for him. But she did care about her good name, and she could not risk letting it be sullied by the Brute if he were to be captured. Because if he found out that her information led to his capture, he would surely avenge himself by reciting the worst possible version of events of their night together.

      Or he might manage to escape and avenge himself on her in a more horrific way! Hennie had said the man had cut people’s throats.

      “Mrs. Treacher?” the constable said, giving her a verbal nudge.

      She gulped. “I-I’m sorry…it was so dark…even this morning.”

      “Then you don’t think you could find the cave?”

      She lifted her shoulders. “It would be doubtful. Aren’t there many caves along the coast?”

      The constable released a heavy sigh. “Aye.”

      She sagged a little in relief. “Then I’m sure I would be of little help to you. Though certainly I shall notify you first thing if I can remember any particulars.”

      The constable took a step toward the door and walked through a puddle of water. “What’s this?”

      “The roof leaks,” Violet said.

      The man looked incredulous. “But there is a floor above this one, is there not?”

      Violet’s mouth set in a grim line. “The ceiling leaks, too.” The house could have served well as a potato strainer.

      “You should get that fixed!”

      “Oh, yes. I intend to see to it first thing,” Violet said.

      Another lie. She wouldn’t be here long enough to fix anything. Not if she could help it. Now more than ever, she was determined to unload this godforsaken wreck of a house—cats, the caretaker Barnabas, leaks and all—on that pompous gasbag, the Marquess of St. Just. She needed to move quickly, too, before he had the opportunity to see what a wreck the place truly was.

      After Peabody showed the constable to the door he returned to the salon to collect the tea tray. There was another knock at the door.

      “See who it is, Peabody,” Violet said, “and tell them not to knock so hard next time, or else the whole house will tumble about our ears.”

      She sank against the sofa, depressed. No matter how she looked at the situation, her Cornwall gambit had been a disaster. It was hard to imagine things getting any worse.

      And then Peabody, looking extremely rattled, announced their latest visitor.

      “The Marquess of St. Just, ma’am.”