The Fictitious Marquis Read online

  The Fictitious

  Marquis

  by Alina Adams

  The Fictitious Marquis by Alina Adams

  First eBook Edition

  Copyright © 1995 by Alina Sivorinovsky

  eBook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Originally published by Avon Books

  "WHAT IS IT ABOUT YOU, MR. LOWELL, THAT OTHER WOMEN FIND SO ENCHANTING?"

  Taking a step closer to Julia, Jamie gazed deeply into her eyes, making it impossible for her to look away.

  "Well, first of all," he began, "I start by telling the lady how beautiful she is. How the black of her eyes is like the rarest of pearls lying safe and warm beneath the azure blue of the sea."

  Julia listened, knowing all the while that he had fined and honed his craft until every wooing word slipped like poetry from his lips. And yet she couldn't help feeling affected by them.

  He reached for the glass of sherry behind him and dipped his finger into the wine. Mesmerized, Julia watched Jamie bring his hand to her mouth, and ever so softly rub a sprinkle of sherry along her lower lip.

  "May I?" Jamie didn't bother to wait for the refusal they both knew she was incapable of offering, before leaning forward and, with his tongue, licking the wine from Julia's mouth.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  1

  When the hangman's noose was finally slipped over Jamie Lowell's neck, he'd already imagined the act so many times that it almost felt familiar.

  Tightly braided rope sliced into his skin, scraping Jamie's neck as raw as both the wrists bound behind his back. A nail protruded from the center plank of the gallows platform, piercing his right foot. Jamie tried shifting his weight to the left, but succeeded merely in slicing the sharpened tip across the most sensitive part of his sole. His toes curled, the entire leg jerking reflexively, then slammed back down on the nail with an even greater force than before.

  Jamie gave up. He reasoned that, in a few moments, that minor aggravation would be the least of his troubles. Instead, Jamie attempted to count his blessings, which granted, at this dark moment in time, appeared rather sparse. The best he could think of was that, at least, he had been spared the indignity of a public execution. During the past months spent shackled at Newgate, Jamie had seen enough such spectacles through the bars of his cell to understand that escaping a similar fate was indeed a great fortune.

  On days when a public hanging was expected, every window overlooking the prison was booked in advance by young bloods seeking a sensation, and by the occasional sober looking tradesman come to enjoy the sight of justice catching up with his less fortunate brethren. The mob gathered overnight and pressed up against the barrier in front of the scaffold. In the hours before an open execution, prison inmates struggled to snatch a wink of sleep, squeezing both palms against their ears in a futile attempt to block out the constant, blood-hungry roaring of the crowd. As time grew nearer to the appointed hour, the throng grew more excited, more ferocious, more ribald. As if the entire procedure were a holiday spectacle staged especially for their amusement.

  By dawn, thousands of faces breathed as one, eyes tied to the back door of the prison, necks twisted from the effort of craning up, always in search of the better view. They cheered as the hangman appeared, dragged his chained victim to the noose, and solemnly cut through the bindings—only to entangle the poor soul in a much deadlier trap moments later.

  It truly was no small blessing that some peculiar quirk of fate had placed Jamie's hanging hour at such a time when a faster and thus less public death served the interests of all involved.

  He felt strangely calm, considering his executioner was already climbing down the platform, ready to spring a latch beneath the trap door and send Jamie swinging.

  He heard the latch being pulled, and wondered if he should close his eyes. But there was no time to deeply contemplate the quandary as Jamie's feet slipped out from under him, and he dropped downwards. A burning sensation seized his throat, strangely similar to the one he got from drinking liquor too fast. Jamie's Adam's apple crushed into his windpipe and he instinctively opened his mouth, trying to lap in a gulp or two of air, but he accomplished nothing save biting his tongue.

  His heart pounded madly, seemingly bent on exploding out of his chest. His eyes crossed, blurring his vision to the point where all colors faded into a distorted gray. He flailed madly, finally understanding at this late date in life why it was that every fish he'd ever caught always did the same, and tried to free his arms, his legs, anything to make the pain lessen.

  And then he was falling, the ground flying up to meet Jamie's face at a speed he never would have guessed possible for such a previously settled object.

  He hit the dirt on his stomach, feeling the last bits of air still left in his lungs being smacked outward. The rope about his neck loosened just a little, but it was enough for Jamie to gratefully gulp in as much sweet air as he could. Dirt coated his mouth and nostrils. He breathed in air and coughed out mud. His head still spun from the unexpected plunge downwards.

  Eyes only barely starting to focus, Jamie painfully rolled over on his back. If he remembered correctly, the magistrate at his sentencing had pronounced that Jeremy Lowell was to be hanged by his neck until dead. He did not think he was dead. But, then again, maybe the professionals knew best.

  Jamie squinted upwards. The trap door of the platform still swung back and forth, squeaking horribly in each direction. Immediately above it stood the hangman, knife in one hand, severed end of Jamie's tattered noose in the other.

  "Jamie Lowell?" The first odd thing about the voice was that it came not from above, but from beside him. The second oddity was that, unless Jamie had truly taken leave of his senses in all this excitement, the voice most certainly belonged to a female.

  Agonizingly, he forced his head to the side for a better look.

  He saw skirts. Many, many of them, one on top of the other, as was the style of the day. In this case, the outermost skirt, a pale cream of pink, was curved away from the front and caught up on either side at the back, so that it fell in three large loops, showing a petticoat intricately embroidered with roses and lilies. This same pattern was repeated further upwards, on the puffed sleeves, and on the long apron of sheer, embroidered linen that accessorized the open-front gown.

  So taken was Jamie by the grandness of the material—and, after prison, anything not made of gray burlap probably would have struck him as exquisite—that it took him a while to finish glancing upward and actually acknowledge the young lady inside of the gown. She could not have been more than a year past twenty, with ebony black hair that, no matter the efforts of pins and bonnets, still gave the impression of being wildly uncontrollable and spilling onto a face dominated by a pair of eyes so equally
black that they appeared out of place, gleaming as they did above the sun kissed spatter of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

  She stared down critically at Jamie, studying him in the same manner his late mum had once judged a piece of day-old meat that the butcher held out for her inspection.

  Finally, the young woman sighed, snapping open her parasol, and fanning it dismissively in Jamie's direction. "Very well, then," she told the hangman. "I suppose he shall have to do."

  It took the strength of two Charlies to drag Jamie Lowell to his feet and into the single room of Newgate Prison reserved for conversation. The young lady stood waiting for him, a look of disgust on her face serving as instantaneous explanation for why she'd declined taking a seat on the sole mold-covered chair in the room. Her parasol continued bobbing at a most frantic pace, stirring up a wind that caused the lace fichu framing her throat to flap like the sail of a fishing boat lost in a storm, yet succeeding little in keeping the general stench of the room from the lady's delicate nostrils.

  She said, "My name, Mr. Lowell, is Julia Highsmith."

  Not known about St. Giles's Rookery for his ability to keep a civil tongue, whether he were bosky on Madame Geneva, Strip-me-Naked, Blue Ruin, or merely on the intoxication of hearing his own tongue wag, Jamie blurted the first thought that came to his head, "Was I mistaken then in my hearing about town that fine ladies of the ton such as yourself, Miss Highsmith, dare never to speak to a male stranger lest previously introduced?"

  "Considering the uniqueness of our meeting site, Mr. Lowell, I daresay we may consider our introduction to have been performed by no less than a servant of His Majesty the hangman, and pray let us proceed to the issue at hand."

  Jamie turned sideways, so that she might look at his still shackled hands, and replied, "I am humbly at your service, m'lady."

  She paused for only a moment, seemingly gathering strength for the delicate task ahead, then abruptly jerked up her chin, forcing the words in a hurried torrent, lest she give herself a chance to reconsider. "I come to you, Mr. Lowell, with a proposition of business. In exchange for my securing your freedom from the gallows, and indeed, from Newgate Prison altogether, you are to render me a single favor, the terms of which I will further outline to you, upon your agreeing to accept the bargain."

  "I continue to listen humbly, m'lady."

  "Upon my father's death three years ago, he entrusted the capital of my inheritance, some one hundred thousand pounds, to his younger brother, my uncle Collin, the duke of Alamain, under the terms that not a farthing of it were to come my way until the day that I should marry a man my uncle deems agreeable. Presently, any expense, ranging from the running of my household to my purchasing a single fruit ice from Gunther's, must first be submitted for my uncle's approval. I am sure you would agree, Mr. Lowell, that it is a most uncomfortable manner in which to live."

  Without a trace of gaiety in his expression, Jamie commiserated, "Aye, surely myself and each of my mates at the gallows do sympathize with your dire and tragic predicament."

  She bristled at his thinly disguised rebuke. "I assure you, Mr. Lowell, that I desire the sympathy of neither you nor your mates, nor do I deserve to feel the object of your contempt."

  "On what grounds could a ruffian of my stature and situation ever show any cause for lavishing contempt upon a lady of your obvious high breeding and manner? Pray tell me, Miss Highsmith, in honor of what occasion have you deigned to visit our humble lodgings at Newgate? Could it be that the fashionable sport of the upper classes has progressed from fox hunts to hangings?"

  "For a man with his life still only moments from the noose, your tongue does run to the glib, Mr. Lowell."

  He took no umbrage at her saucy attempt to plant him a verbal facer, explaining, "One hour ago, Miss Highsmith, I did not imagine myself to be still breathing upon this minute of the clock. So you see, all that transpires after is mere folly."

  She sighed, stealing a glance at the door in regret over ever having initiated this conversation, but, nevertheless, resolved to continue. "In order that I may claim my inheritance, it is necessary that I make a good marriage and bring it on a platter for my uncle to devour. In the past, I have lived most comfortably off an allowance he grants me monthly, and had no cause to trouble myself with the provision of my father's will. However, recently, it has become imperative that I acquire a sum of money that can only be realized with the bequest from my father's estate. To that result, I am compelled to acquire a husband as soon as possible."

  Jamie felt certain that Miss Highsmith could not possibly be waltzing about the subject he thought she was.

  Yet, although she focused her eyes on every corner in the room except for Jamie's face, Julia kept talking. "In exchange for escaping the gallows, you are to marry me and accompany me on a honeymoon to France—during which time you are not to question any of the actions I undertake there, nor are you ever to repeat them to another living soul. You will then remain my husband for the period of one calendar year. Should, during the course of that year, you perform any deed which might cause the ton, but most importantly my uncle, to doubt the legitimate state of our marriage, I will personally see you returned to prison and hung up for all to cheer. However, if you acquiesce to your part of the bargain, at the end of one year, you will receive one thousand pounds to disappear from England and be presumed dead. Agreed?"

  Jamie only wished all those who'd known him before could be present to spy Jeremy Lowell without a word in his head.

  Finally, he stammered, "But surely, I am not the sort of fiancé your esteemed uncle would recognize fit to be presented upon his silver platter."

  "I did not choose you at random, Mr. Lowell, amongst the remaining refuse in this institution, but with a purpose. The magistrate tells me you are by far the cleverest, quickest of tongue scoundrel ever to stand in his court. Your crime is separating maidens from their life savings with such charm and sweetness, that, rather than feeling in the hips, they come instead to speak in your defense before the bench. Truly a rake in possession of such talents can cajole one elderly duke into doing his bidding. Furthermore, I surely do not intend to present you to my uncle dressed as you are today. We have three months in which I am to see you washed, deloused, outfitted, and tutored in the finer graces, until you truly can masquerade as a titled gentleman for the space of the necessary year."

  "One more question, m'lady? Would it not be simpler indeed, for your ladyship to engage a gentleman of her born class for such an endeavor?"

  "It would not," Julia lectured as if he were a particularly soft-in-the-head schoolboy. "For, if I were to marry a gentleman of my own class, he inevitably would wish to stay married for a period longer than the necessary year."

  "Are you truly that irresistible, Miss Highsmith?"

  She disregarded his barb. "I do not wish, at this time, to marry, and, were it not for the money I need, would have chosen not to."

  "And may I inquire as to the nature of business—in France, did you say?—that forces your ladyship into such a devious arrangement?"

  "You may inquire, but be forewarned of all such queries going unanswered." For the first time since he'd come in, Julia actually raised her eyes to meet Jamie's. "Well, then, what shall it be? I must be going. I have no intention of damaging my reputation by being spotted driving through London so well after sunset."

  He thought about it during the time it took the clock on St. Sepulchre's Church to chime three in the afternoon. Julia crossed her arms and waited, face set in an expression of impatience. She tapped her foot against the dirt-covered floor, shaking it lightly after each tap, lest the filth settle permanently, and drummed five fingers along the rim of her parasol.

  Jamie cleared his throat, feeling the nerves that deserted him at the gallows finally make their appearance, and asked, not solely in jest, "Would it be too late now to return to the noose?"

  As secrecy about Jamie's true origin was the most important aspect to making Julia's plan a s
uccess, no sooner had he agreed to trade a hanging for matrimony, when Jamie found himself being rather unceremoniously wrapped in a moth-chewn carpet by Miss Highsmith's coachman. The man in the three-cornered hat and French gloves then proceeded to hoist the awkwardly rolled bundle upon his shoulder, walk silently down the halls and through the back gate of Newgate Prison, and, sniffing distastefully, stuff Jamie into the rear of Miss Highsmith's carriage.

  Over the whinnying of her four chestnuts, Jamie distinctively thought he heard a woman struggling to control her laughter.

  His intended, no doubt.

  Mouth choked with carpeting, Jamie nevertheless managed to spit out, "I daresay, Miss Highsmith, I was rather hoping for a smaller, sportier curricle. Or a phaeton, perhaps?"

  "Oh, the devil with you." Julia shoved the carpet that was Jamie deeper into her carriage.

  Face completely covered, he focused his efforts on avoiding suffocation. Eventually, the painful bouncing about made Jamie think that they had left the pavement of London, and were progressing somewhere into the countryside.

  Robbed of both his sense of sight and hearing, he was forced to rely solely on smell. And, as the air no longer reeked of week-old fish heads and dishwater, he felt safe in presuming that they had abandoned the slums and alleys of Clare Market, St. Giles's Rookery, Clerkenwell, and, indeed, all of the East End. Although, without aid of the sun and moon, he couldn't discern whether they were heading north, south, east, or west. Wherever it was, he reassured himself, it could only be an improvement over standing chained to the moldy wall of a prison cell. They would probably have food. Of course, Miss Highsmith had offered nary a word in the bargain about meals being included. Which was a shame, since, anticipating being dead by three, Jamie had not eaten for hours.

  Finally, after what had seemed like a fortnight of struggling to draw breath and only inhaling a mouthful of attic dust, Jamie felt the carriage draw to a stop. He heard the horses' reins being tightened about the carriage brake, and Miss Highsmith disembarking. Jamie, unsure of what the role called for him to do next, mutely sat and waited for his orders. Besides the carpet dust, Jamie's nostrils sucked in a whiff of freshly cut greenery, as well as a cornucopia of wildflowers and recently chopped wood. Now that the carriage had stopped, he could also hear chirping birds, accompanied by the rustle of squirrels as they darted through the trees.