My Favorite Marquess. Alexandra Bassett

estate in Yorkshire.

      This had been especially brought home to her last summer when her other sister, Abigail, had managed to make a happier marriage than Violet had ever supposed was possible for the rather plain, reclusive, bookish spinster. But it turned out Abby hadn’t been wasting her time under their father’s roof. Instead she had secretly been penning successful gothic novels under the pseudonym Georgina Harcourt. Violet had never seen their father so impressed as when he had discovered the secret. And on top of that, Abby had managed to win the heart of the only semi-eligible bachelor in the area. Not that Violet herself would have considered marrying Nathan Cantrell for one moment, but she had to admit that it looked to be a very good match for Abby, and the couple obviously doted on each other. Quite bourgeois, but rather sweet.

      The whole episode made Violet realize that since Percy’s death she had been frittering away her best years instead of making a new life of her own choosing. Now, thanks in part to the odious marquess, she saw a path to self-sufficiency. She would see to Trembledown’s repairs, have the estate appraised by a reputable third party, and then offer it for sale. With the proceeds she could set up her own household in a more pleasant part of the world.

      Once she would have set her sights on London, but not now. She had finished with attempting to break into the haute ton of London. Perhaps she would try Bath. If she shared a household with the newly well-off Hennie, they should be able to acquire a very nice accommodation in that quaint town.

      Hennie was already eager to go there because Imogene Philbrick, an old school friend, lived in that city. Violet shuddered to think what that woman—who had been described by Hennie as “Not quite as outgoing as I”—could possibly be like. Violet had no intention of joining a tiresome band of tea-drinking, needle-working women; yet there was no reason that they could not share expenses and largely go their separate social ways. With the sale of the house in Cornwall, she would have enough money to create an impression of lavish gentility that she rated necessary for success in Bath.

      As she eyed her cousin’s ensemble, she noticed that her cousin’s petticoats were showing. Typical of the rather untidy Henrietta, Violet thought. Then, narrowing her eyes, she squinted to make out the color. Good heavens! Hennie had even procured black undergarments!

      “I was just remembering some more of the conversation I overheard at the inn,” Hennie informed them. “It’s said that Robert the Brute is horribly disfigured! That’s why he wears a mask.”

      Clearly, the smuggler had lodged in her brain.

      Peabody, always interested in fashion, was unwillingly drawn in. “Always?”

      “Yes, and no one, not even his most trusted associates, knows his identity. For no one who looks on his visage is allowed to live, they say!”

      “Has he killed many men?” Peabody asked.

      “Oh my, yes! Hundreds, according to the innkeeper at the last stop. That kind man was most concerned that we make it to Trembledown before nightfall, lest we fall into the blackguard’s hands!” Hennie gazed anxiously out the window, though by now there was nothing to be seen but blackness. Clearly, they had failed to follow the innkeeper’s advice and were, therefore, doomed.

      “We must trust Hal hasn’t taken a wrong turn and gotten us hopelessly lost. I am sure it would be easy to do so on these terrible roads,” Peabody said, bringing the conversation back to his favorite lament.

      “I can’t see that the state of the roads has anything to do with the direction we are heading,” Violet said.

      All the same, she was annoyed that they were wandering in the dark down an unknown road, well past dinnertime. She was famished, and heaven only knew what awaited them at Trembledown. She had written the caretaker, a man by the name of Barnabas Monk, in advance of their arrival, but from his terse, barely literate reply, it sounded as if the house was not properly staffed.

      “That’s just my point, my dear,” Hennie said. “Who can tell where we are headed in this darkness? There is no moon at all tonight. Which is when the smugglers are most active, as anyone knows!”

      “I had no idea you had become the authority on Cornish smuggling.”

      Violet’s ribbing was lost on Hennie. “I felt it my duty to listen with courtesy to the innkeeper after you had administered such a snub.”

      “I would hardly call it a snub to demand some service,” Violet said. “That is his business, after all. If he wants to spend his days spreading tales, let him become a town crier instead of innkeeper.”

      What Hennie’s response to this might have been was cut off by the sound of a loud boom and the whinnying of horses as the carriage came to a jarring halt. Violet was thrown from the seat and landed on the floor with her skirts around her waist, revealing a shocking amount of leg that she was helpless at first to wrestle back under her garments.

      Just as Hennie and Peabody were reaching down to assist her, the door to the carriage was thrown open.

      Expecting to see her coachman, Violet began remonstrating. “Really, Hal, what is the problem? I am going to be black and blue tomorrow and I have torn a new pair of stockings!”

      “I regret the damage, milady.”

      The gruff, sarcastic voice, barely intelligible through a thick Cornish accent and attended by a mocking bow, was not that of the faithful old Wingate groom. Violet looked up and felt her jaw go slack. The carriage’s exterior lamps clearly showed the person leaning into the carriage to be a giant beast of a man—tall and unkempt—with a fiendish leer on his horrid mouth.

      “Seldom ’ave I seen a more worthy set of gams encased by France’s finest silk.” He ogled the leg once more and then looked into Violet’s face.

      Another moan fluttered out of Hennie, and Peabody’s audible gulp very nearly shook the carriage. Violet managed to remain silent, though she felt herself drawing back against the seat and a deep trembling begin in the marrow of her bones. Their intruder’s scruffy boots, dirty buckskins, and lamentable coat alone would have been enough to cause her to recoil. Likewise, the shining black barrel of the pistol that was pointed at her would have excused the swooning sensation in her head. But, amazingly, these things she noted only with the briefest horror. Indeed, they seemed trivial next to the mask that was covering some half of the stranger’s face.

      Good heavens! Could it be…?

      “Robert the Brute.” Hennie and Peabody breathed together.

      The man swept off his hat and treated them all to another mocking bow. His disguise gave him the appearance of a sinister masquerader. “At your service.” He stepped into the carriage and slammed the door closed after he had bellowed at the driver to get moving.

      “Remember!” he shouted. “My pistol is trained on your charges!”

      He grasped a gaping Violet and yanked her onto the seat next to him. Across from them, Hennie and Peabody were clinging to each other, quaking.

      The jolt she received on hitting the seat shook Violet out of her momentary stupor. What was going on here? “Just what do you think you are doing in my carriage? Get out at once!” She leaned to the window to shout for Old Hal to pull over but felt her arm wrenched by the intruder. She winced.

      When he spoke, his horrible growl had an acid edge of formality. “Sorry to trouble you, Highness, but recent events have made it necessary for me to depart this vicinity in a bloody hurry.”

      Hennie, who had had practice deciphering both the Cornish accent and the ways of smugglers at the inn, assessed the situation more quickly than the rest of them. “Excise men?” she asked breathlessly, flaunting her newly acquired expertise.

      The man smiled at the older woman’s knowledgeable guess. “Just so, ma’am. I am afraid I parted ways from my horse, and the tidesmen were closing in on me. Imagine my relief to see your carriage lumbering over the hill!”

      “Oh yes! That was very fortunate indeed.” In response to Violet’s dagger