How to Master Your Marquis by Juliana Gray Page A

alleyways, this Cousin Hannah’s establishment with its fresh shipment of ale. Stefanie should have felt the familiar rising tide of excitement, the anticipation of new mischief, but instead she felt rather . . . glum. As if she were going through the motions, not really interested. Her mind kept returning to the case she’d been summarizing a few hours ago. And, more deliciously still, to the Marquess of Hatherfield, who never quite disappeared from her mind, all vibrant in his mesmerizing figure and his rich laugh, his bright eyes and wit. With the tantalizing sense that she’d barely shaved the golden skin of him, that there was so much more inside waiting for discovery.
    So infinitely more interesting than sitting around another battered wooden table for a few more tedious hours with this drunken lot.
    She should really be getting back to Cadogan Square and a good night’s sleep. This enterprise had been a stupid mistake, a leftover instinct from her old unsatisfied life. She imagined Hatherfield watching her now, understanding and a little sorrowful, giving his head a little shake. Disappointed in her choice of company. She should find a hansom and head back, she should . . .
    “Here we are, then!” one of the clerks called out cheerfully, and bustled her inside an unexpected and nondescript doorway, halfway along the street.
    “You know, I really . . .”
    But her comrades were already filling the hall, already laughing and flinging off their coats, already moving as a group into a warm and well-cushioned parlor, in which an electric chandelier hung with decadent brilliance from the ceiling and the surrounding upholstery had evidently been acquired from a factory positioned directly atop the world’s largest deposit of red ocher.
    “Oh dear,” said Stefanie.
    Evidently this Hannah was a kissing cousin.
    The clerk who sat next to her, Bumby was his name, delivered her back a hearty thwack. “Look there! Cousin Hannah herself!” he called out.
    The mistress of the house appeared in the doorway, not at all the florid female butterball of bawdy house legend. Cousin Hannah was tall and willowy, except for a pair of unnecessarily plump breasts perched atop an unnecessarily snug corset, and at the sight of the company in her crimson parlor, her face of fragile if rather mature loveliness opened up in a welcoming smile. She held out her hands. “Why, Mr. Bumby! Do come and give me a kiss. It’s been ages. A fortnight at least!”
    Mr. Bumby obliged with enthusiasm, and then he turned to a pink-faced Stefanie. “This is my young friend Mr. Thomas, Hannah. He likes them fresh, he says. The fresher the better, isn’t that right, Thomas?”
    “In fact,” said Stefanie, “I believe that last beer at the Slaughtered Lamb has rather done for me tonight . . .”
    “Oh, rubbish, Thomas!” said one of the other clerks. “Why, Hannah’s girls will have your prick standing in no time, never fear. Once I staggered in here at two in the morning, drunk as a dockhand, couldn’t put two words together, couldn’t bloody walk for England, and in two minutes little Camille had me so stiff I could have ground pepper with my . . .”
    “Yes, yes, Mr. Humboldt.” Cousin Hannah tilted her head and assessed Stefanie from under her thick black lashes. “But Camille is not for everyone, you know. Are you certain you want someone so young, Mr. Thomas? I think an older girl might suit you better. A girl of experience.”
    “Or no girl at all,” said Stefanie, “for I’m really quite . . . shattered. Been an exhausting day, an exhausting few days really, and . . .”
    “Oh, that’s balls, Thomas,” said Bumby. “Do go up for a quick one, at least. You can’t just sit about the parlor waiting for us with your doodle hanging down mournfully around your ankles, can you?”
    “That’s . . . that’s unlikely, really,” said Stefanie. “In any case, I can find my own way home.”
    Cousin Hannah took