The Mistress Enchants Her Marquis Read online

  The Mistress Enchants Her Marquis

  Christina McKnight

  La Loma Elite Publishing

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

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  Other Books by Christina McKnight

  About the Author

  Author’s Notes

  Copyright © 2017 by Christina McKnight

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1-945089-13-X (Paperback)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-945089-13-8 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 1-945089-12-1 (Electronic book)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-945089-12-1 (Electronic book)

  La Loma Elite Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  [email protected]

  ISBN: 1-945089-12-1

  Created with Vellum

  To My Readers~

  * * *

  Each day I’m able to sit behind my computer and escape into another story is a blessing. Thank you for your unwavering support!

  Prologue

  Baltimore, Maryland

  June 1818

  * * *

  Elijah Watson, the eighth Marquis of Ridgefeld, stood on the dock, seamen and crew hustling around him. The brisk afternoon breeze swept off the Chesapeake Bay, washing over him as he stared at the growing city before him. The wind surrounding him and solid footing beneath his feet did nothing to alleviate his sorrow and heartbreak, but he needed to complete this journey—an adventure his grandfather had called it when they’d set sail from Liverpool on the newest clipper from the Hudson’s Bay Company, the Cameron de Gazelle. Neither had dreamed it would be their last voyage together.

  He never would have allowed his grandfather to convince him it would make a grand adventure for them if Eli had known what was to come…

  They’d sailed to Africa, South America, across Europe, and the Orient—journeyed by land to every part of England and Scotland in search of treasure; Eli had never imagined Melville Watson, the seventh Marquis of Ridgefeld—Melly to his closest friends—would take ill on passage to the New World.

  The sickness had struck so quickly—taken so much from the man—he’d wasted away in five short days, reduced to nothing but skin, his bones protruded at every angle. It had been utterly devastating for Eli to witness the man who’d raised him, clothed him, fed him, sent him to University diminish before his eyes. The ship’s doctor had labeled it consumption and demanded his grandfather be quarantined from the other occupants of the ship. Only Eli was brave enough to venture into his grandfather’s sick room to care for him, spending his days hidden on the ship, embarrassed by the tears and sobs that would not halt. He needed to be strong, lend his strength to the elderly man to fight his sickness, but Eli had been weak.

  “Pardon, m’lord?” A hand settled on Eli’s shoulder. “Will ye be need’n ta go somewhere specific?”

  Eli turned to see the ship’s captain, concern etching his face. “Captain, I…” The burly man, his clothes filthy from their near thirty days at sea, shook his head. “My apologies. Yes, I have an address, but it is nearly two years old.”

  “I be head’n ta see me family.” He lifted his pack for Eli to see. “The docks ain’t the proper place for a lad like yeself once darkness sets in.”

  Confused, Eli wondered what the man offered—transport from the harbor to Baltimore proper, a meal, a bed for the night, or only a warning to seek a safer area before the sun fell below the town’s skyline.

  A gusty, cold wind hit Eli’s back, soaking straight through his coat. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, though if it were caused by the chill settling on the harbor or the warning in the captain’s words, Eli did not know. In fact, he was far too exhausted to care.

  His eyelids drooped; he was drained.

  “Is there an inn close to Market Street?” He would benefit from a hot bath and a few hours of rest before attempting to locate the woman he’d journeyed across the Atlantic to find.

  The captain’s eyes narrowed, and he scratched his balding head. “Market Street, ye say?”

  “Yes, the last correspondence I received had an address off Market Street.” Eli and his grandfather had researched the city of Baltimore before purchasing their fare to America. The town was growing by the day with industrial, manufacturing, and shipping trades. It was a new world of growth and opportunity—though his home country did not see it as such. Eli had come for exactly those purposes. “It was postmarked almost two years ago, however. I fear the person I seek may have moved on already.”

  “Ah, well, the area ain’t no better than the docks, m’lord,” Captain Constantine said. “But if’n ye hurry, ye should arrive afore dark and be safely inside. I’d offer ye a ride, but I be goin’ the opposite way. If’n I don’t hurry, me horde of heathens will eat me supper afore I arrive.”

  Eli chuckled along with the man, but while the captain’s stomach shook with his deep laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners, Eli was hard-pressed to find his jovial spirit.

  The captain seemed to notice his dour mood and his laughter ended abruptly. “I be sorry we didna make it ta port afore ye gran-da passed, lad. Ol’ Melly was a kind man, ta be certain. Good man, such a shame…”

  Elijah suppressed the tears stinging the backs of his eyes and threatening to fall. He refused to cry before the captain. “That he was, Captain, that he was.” He cleared his throat and gazed at the buildings the crew had told him were the city of Baltimore. “I will hail a hackney and depart for Market Street. Do not fret.”

  “Ye send word ta the ship if’n ye fall inta any trouble, ye hear?”

  “I certainly will, Captain,” Eli reassured the man; though it was unlikely he’d find anything other than trouble while in America. He only prayed his business here would be handled swiftly, and he could seek passage back to England with all due haste. “This is not my first time in a foreign land.”

  “I be in port for several days, then we sail for Canada.” The captain nodded and then turned and walked toward a waiting carriage, shouting greetings to the occupants of other ships as he passed.

  With a final wave, the man was off.

  Leaving Eli alone. Depressingly alone.

  He hadn’t lied about his familiarity with traveling. Nor had he been completely honest. He’d seen the world. Traveled to exotic places, and met interesting people, even
explored an ancient pyramid in his youth, but never had he traveled unaccompanied.

  Melville Watson, his grandfather, had been by his side on every adventure from the time Elijah was born.

  His guardian in childhood.

  His mentor in adulthood.

  His father in every sense of the word.

  Now he was gone, buried at sea—taking with him a huge part of Eli and leaving behind a gaping hole so large, Elijah feared nothing was left of him.

  Despondency nearly dragged Eli to his knees, his entire being weighted by grief.

  This voyage had better be worth the great man he lost.

  Eli moved quickly toward the carriages and carts loitering on the street, awaiting their freight. He hoisted his and his grandfather’s travel packs higher on his shoulder and lifted his arm, waving to a hack driver nearby.

  The driver gave a solid shake of his reins and pulled forward to meet him. “Last fare of the day, guv’nor.”

  “I will count myself lucky, then,” Eli called, tossing his bags into the hack before claiming the seat beside the driver. “Market Street, if you please. An inn with vacancies is preferred.”

  The driver eyed him for a moment, a puzzled look on his face. “Ya be one a those British guv’nors.”

  It had been over forty years since the colonies claimed their independence from England—over a decade before Elijah’s birth. King George III hadn’t forgotten the slight, and it appeared the great people of Maryland hadn’t either.

  “I am, but I have family in Baltimore.” Eli hoped mention of family—accompanied by his most charming smile—would ensure that the driver delivered him without further delay.

  “What kinda kin do ya have on Market?”

  Elijah had wondered the same thing since the captain had spoken of the unsavory area. “A female very near and dear to my heart, sir.” A woman who’d taken his heart when she’d fled England—long before Eli was of an age to give it willingly. His chest, above where a person’s heart should lie, ached...pleading to have the delicate, broken piece of him mended.

  Thankfully, the driver did not seem to notice Eli’s sarcasm, and he nodded, giving his reins another shake. The hack’s mismatched pair of horses sprang forward and settled into a leisurely pace as they advanced into the city.

  The driver hummed a good-humored tune as he traversed the crowded, late-afternoon streets, weaving around a carriage with a broken wheel only to veer sharply in the other direction when a group of men stumbled into the road, their arms raised in salute before passing a bottle between them.

  “Yellow-livered drunkards!” the driver shouted as they passed. “They be gettin’ themselves dead, sure as sunshine in June.”

  “What is that man doing?” Eli shouted over the clopping of the horses.

  “That’s Samuel with Peale's Gas Light Company lightin’ the street lamps.” The man gave a soft chuckle. “And ya high and mighty King say we’re the uncivilized gents.”

  Eli had read about the use of hydrogen for lighting. There was word that neighborhoods in London were installing the gas-powered inventions in their homes, and they’d soon be on every street corner. It seemed Baltimore was advanced in this arena.

  They continued in silence, Eli free to take in the rowdy city around him—the people were so alive, scurrying here and there. However, one man looked much like the next as they finally turned onto Market Street. It was a working-class neighborhood with storefronts and several warehouses. Light shining brightly from second and third-story windows told Eli people lived above where they worked.

  “Only a few more minutes ‘til we’re there, guv’nor.”

  The street narrowed, eliminating the space for pedestrians to walk along the road as the buildings encroached on the path they traveled, blocking the sunlight and darkening the road. It was fascinating the way the structures loomed without collapsing inward.

  His grandfather would have marveled at the sight, as well.

  Before long, the street widened once more, allowing people space to walk and making room for hitching posts for horses. Laughter, loud shouts, and male voices raised in song floated Eli’s way, and Market Street veered to the right as a large building encased with windows came into view. Even here, a mile inland, Eli could smell the fresh, clean ocean air—unlike London’s rank outdoors. As they drew closer to the building, he noticed a shingle hanging from the post on the street side.

  McDowell Inn and Tavern.

  Eli slipped an envelope from his coat pocket and read the hastily scribbled address on the paper:

  31 McDowell Street

  Baltimore Maryland

  America

  Could it be this simple to locate her—or at least the last place he’d known her to reside? Someone inside must remember her. His grandfather used to regale Eli with tales of her—the way she lit a room, the way she commanded attention, and the way every man hung on her every word.

  The driver turned onto a narrow lane and brought the hack to a stop. “Five cents.” He held out his hand and awaited his coin.

  Eli fished around in his trouser pocket for the American currency he’d traded his British shillings for aboard the ship and retrieved a half-dozen shiny cent pieces.

  “Is this McDowell Street?” Eli held the envelope out for the man to see. “Thirty-one McDowell Street?”

  The driver glanced at the number on the envelope and over at the sign hung on the inn. “Yep. Finest inn and tavern this side of the Atlantic!”

  Elijah looked back to the large building before him, noting the discarded rubbish that lingered in the small yard, several piles raked up against the actual building. Paint peeled around the door and window frames. The riotous sounds from inside escaped through several missing windowpanes on the first floor. This close to the dock, he supposed it was the finest inn within hackney distance of the Atlantic, though it did not appear to be an establishment any proper woman would enter—let alone call home for almost a decade.

  He had no more grabbed his bags and jumped to the ground when the driver pulled away, his laughter rising above the commotion coming from the inn.

  The late marquis—his grandfather—would have enjoyed a few hours among the rambunctious crowd within McDowell’s. Sharp pain etched through Eli once more. His grandfather was gone. Elijah was now Lord Ridgefeld, a marquis. It was a title he’d been raised to inherit, but not this soon, and certainly not in this fashion.

  He sighed.

  For Eli, a warm bath, a decent meal, and a soft bed were in order.

  Then he would seek more information.

  Until then, his mind could not be trusted to work properly.

  Hoisting his bags once more, he pushed through the small gate, which creaked loudly and hung from one hinge, the other having rotted clean through. He lifted the hanging gate back into place and made his way to the double doors. A bell sounded above his head when he entered, but it was unlikely anyone would hear it over the shouting, and—was someone playing the piano?—singing coming from deep within the inn.

  This dilapidated, rowdy tavern and inn was the last thing Eli had expected to find at thirty-one McDowell Street; however, it was the only clue he had.

  He prayed it was enough, and the voyage had not been a complete waste of his time—and his grandfather’s final days.

  “May I help you, sir?” A man, obviously the proprietor, judging from his neat garb and combed hair, looked Eli up and down as he walked behind the high counter. “Are you here for a meal, a drink, or a room?”

  “All three,” Eli replied.

  The scrutiny left the man’s expression, and a welcoming smile settled. “I’m Joshua Jenkins. You’ve come to the right place. One room left for the night.”

  “It must certainly be my lucky day,” Eli mumbled. The last hack of the day at the docks, and now, the final room at the inn. If his luck held, he would attain what he’d journeyed to America for and be homeward bound by the following night.

  Certainly, everything coul
d not be this simple.

  “This way, sir.” The innkeeper started down the corridor in the direction of what must be the tavern room. “The cook is here for another few hours if you are hungry. You’ll need to eat in the tavern. Right through that door there.”

  The man gestured toward a set of double doors, pushed open wide to reveal several tables, a long bar counter littered with empty pint glasses, and a piano—every available seat was taken.

  “Busy night?” Eli asked, pausing to have a look inside.

  The stench of stale liquor and unwashed bodies assaulted him—likely he gave off as pungent an odor as the crop of men gathered in the tavern.

  “Every night is a busy night,” the man said. “Finest inn and tavern this close to the Atlantic.” Jenkins slipped his thumbs into the waist of his trousers and rocked back on his heels. “Even the fine mayor of Baltimore frequents my tavern.”

  As if to prove his point, Jenkins stepped forward and pointed to a man sitting close to the piano—a woman on his lap. “That is Mayor George Stiles right there.”

  Eli whistled through his teeth, hoping he displayed the appropriate measure of appreciation for Jenkins’ elevated status. America and its citizens took no stock in British titles, but apparently they treated elected officials as their upper class. To think, a man could be born a dirt farmer and be elected as mayor of a great city with hard work and dedication. It was an enlightened concept. One he and his grandfather had debated the merits of on more than one occasion.

  The woman on Stiles’ lap laughed and hurried to her feet when the mayor attempted to slip his hand beneath her skirt. She turned toward the door, calling something over her shoulder to Stiles before acting as if she would flee the room, but the good mayor grabbed her skirt and pulled her back onto his lap. She landed with a giggle, her back pressed to the man’s chest as his hand slipped around to cup her breast.