by Meara Platt
“Oh, I see. She came up here unbidden and untied her laces all by herself.” He was a rakehell, and until this very moment, she hadn’t quite understood what the word meant. She understood now. Rakehells were the depraved sort of men who sought their pleasure whenever the opportunity presented itself, no matter the circumstances and no matter who they hurt.
“In fact, she did.” He spoke softly, his voice calm and even. However, Dillie saw the thunderous swirls of gray in his eyes and knew he was angry. When at peace, Ian’s eyes were a beautiful, deep grayish-green. The haunting gray that swirled in them now tugged at her heart.
“Oh, Ian. I want to believe you, but I don’t know if I can.” Yet he wasn’t stupid. He must have known that he might be caught. Was that risk a part of the thrill? It seemed so opposite his nature. He was a careful, deliberate man, one who needed to be in control of his surroundings at all times.
Nor did it seem in his nature to be cruel, especially to her, and not after what they had shared last night. She’d felt safe and protected in his arms.
Still, the evidence could not be overlooked. “I just want to know the truth.”
He reached out his hand and took a step toward her, but she backed away.
“So that’s the way it is.” He dropped his hand to his side. “Your mind is made up. I’ve been found guilty.”
“No. I don’t know. The problem is, I don’t know you.” Her needs were simple. She wanted a happy marriage to a man she loved and respected. Was she now condemned to life as the ignorant spouse of a man who would spend his nights cavorting with any woman who caught his fancy? She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm her thoughts. Her head was spinning, and her heart felt as though it had been cut to ribbons. What she’d seen made no sense, yet the girl had been standing beside Ian with her lacings untied and Ian’s arms had been around her shoulders.
She waited for him to explain, but he said nothing further, so she hobbled past him with her head held high and made her way toward her bed. Her foot was swollen and painful, but that did not compare to the ache of his betrayal. They weren’t even married yet, and he’d already been caught dallying with the girl under her very nose.
Her eyes welled with tears.
No! She refused to cry in front of him.
“Damn it, Dillie.” He scooped her into his arms and carried her the remaining distance to the bed. He set her down gently in the center of it, and then stepped away and ran a hand across the back of his neck. “You have to trust me.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Why? Give me a reason.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, now appearing quite indignant, which would have been hilarious had it not been so tragic. Then his manner softened. “Because you’re the last person on earth I’d ever purposely hurt. You must know that.”
“I want to. I’m trying, but I don’t know if I can.”
“Is this how it’s to be between us? My groveling at your feet, begging for forgiveness for every perceived slight? I’m a damn duke. You’re to be my wife, not my judge and jailor.” That said, he stormed downstairs.
CHAPTER 14
DILLIE SPENT the next half hour angry and stewing in her chamber. She’d been too unsettled to remain in bed, so she’d moved to the chair beside the fire and propped her foot on the stool that Ian had ordered placed there. The pillow Ian had also ordered for her was atop the stool, cushioning her bruised and swollen ankle.
She took a deep breath to stem her ache and caught the scent of gingerbread. Ian had ordered those gingerbread cakes brought up to her as well. Was this the sort of care a rakehell offered to just any woman?
She simply didn’t know. Her parents had always made marriage look easy. Oh, they bickered at times, but only over small matters. She couldn’t recall any of their arguments ever starting with “What were you doing with that woman in your arms?” Her sisters seemed happy with their husbands as well. In any event, none of them were here to offer guidance.
In truth, it seemed important that she work the problem out by herself. She wondered what Lily would do, and decided to start by making a list in her mind of Ian’s strengths and weaknesses. It was a logical and methodical approach. Very much like Lily.
If only she were more like her twin!
“Right, let’s start.” She decided to count Ian’s strengths on her hands and his weaknesses on her toes. First, Ian protected her and made her feel safe. A definite strength. She stuck her thumb up.
Second, he was clever and she enjoyed his company. He’d rescued her from the ardent attentions of Charles Ealing and been a gentleman about it. More strengths. She held out two more fingers.
He’d tried to protect her from Lady Withnall. He’d been by her side after Lily had been abducted, offering his quiet assurance and using his considerable resources to help find the culprits. She’d been terrified that she would lose her twin. He’d taken charge and kept up her spirits. She loved him for that alone.
Yes, she loved him.
There was more. She’d used up the fingers on one hand to count all his wonderful attributes and was about to start on the other, but it was shaking. In truth, both hands were shaking. She was a fool. She didn’t need to count. What Ian had done for her and her family after Lily had been abducted was worth at least a thousand points in his favor.
Had she been wrong to doubt him?
She shook off her concern and pressed on. Those horrid rumors circulating about Ian had also been false. He wasn’t a murderer. He didn’t kill his brother, even though he insisted on blaming on himself. His family had heightened his anguish with their heartless disdain and vicious lies. Yet he’d borne their cruelty and hurtful insults with noble grace.
And the night he’d been attacked outside the Farthingale townhouse, he’d—
Crumpets! She was an idiot.
She shot out of her chair and hobbled to the bed to grab one of the blankets. Ugh. She really needed to find some decent clothes. She started to wrap the blanket around her body and then changed her mind. More people were milling about downstairs. She could hear their voices carrying up the stairs. Either the storm was letting up—though it didn’t seem so—or the locals had grown tired of waiting for the wintery mix of snow and icy rain to let up and had braved the forces of nature for the sake of a pint of ale.
No matter the reason, the inn was filling up. She slipped off Ian’s shirt and donned her gown and stockings. They were torn and stained, but at least dry. She tucked her good foot into one of her boots. Hilda had taken them yesterday to be cleaned, and they now appeared to be in passably good condition. She didn’t bother with the other boot, for her foot was so swollen she doubted more than her big toe would fit inside.
She wrapped her now-dry cloak about her shoulders, grabbed one of the larger fireside irons to use as a cane to steady herself, and left her chamber. A quick peek in Abner’s room showed that the old man was alone and sleeping comfortably. She hopped along the hall, trying to make her way downstairs without falling down the flight of stairs that now appeared as daunting as a cliff wall.
No doubt Ian was sitting alone with a large tankard of ale in front of him. She firmed her resolve, knowing she was about to make a spectacle of herself. The sound of laughter and conversation emanated from the common room, an indication that the inn was now bustling. She took several deep breaths, ready to face the patrons who would be gawking at her while she limped in on a foot that was too swollen to allow her to wear proper shoes.
As she neared the bottom landing, she heard two women conversing in quiet but insistent tones. “Elsie, are ye mad? Ye could have been sacked for that little stunt. Be grateful that His Grace didn’t report the matter to Mr. Gwynne.”
“How was I to know, Hilda? He’s asked for me before,” the younger of the two replied. Her sniffles and quavering voice revealed she had been crying. “But he wants nothing to do with me now. He was angry and steered me out of the room.”
“Ye should have realized t
hat he wasn’t interested when he asked Mr. Gwynne to keep ye working downstairs. But ye didn’t care. Ye purposely tried to cause trouble between ’im and Miss Farthingale.”
“So what if I did? She’s just a passing fancy for him.”
Hilda seemed to grow angry. “Ye’re a fool if ye think so. She’s the girl he’ll be marrying and he said those exact words to me and Mrs. Gwynne before he left to scout the accident site this morning. And he meant ’em. No more mischief, I’m warnin’ ye. Keep out of his way or I’ll toss ye out into that storm m’self. I’ll be watchin’ ye closely, Elsie. Ye’d better behave.”
Dillie did her best to shrink against the shadows when she heard light footsteps approach. She saw a tearful Elsie disappear down the hall, and then she heard heavier footsteps as Hilda marched into the common room to tend to the bored and stranded patrons.
Oh, no. Dillie remained leaning against the wall, suddenly needing support. Ian had been telling her the truth. She’d trusted him on everything else and ought to have trusted him on this. In her own defense, she’d already realized her mistake and had been on her way to tell him so.
However, she was also grateful that she’d overheard the conversation between the two maids. When dealing with Ian, she had to be confident and relentless. He’d put up those thick walls around his heart and only a battering ram—lovingly wielded, of course—would knock them down.
A quick inspection of the common room revealed he wasn’t there. She frowned. He hadn’t been in Abner’s room either. Nor was he in the inn’s private dining room. Nor in the kitchen or entry hall. Mrs. Gwynne bustled toward her. “Miss Dillie! What are ye doin’ out of bed?”
“I’m looking for His Grace. Have you seen him?”
She clucked and shook her head. “Oh, ye must ’ave been asleep and he didn’t wish to wake ye. He’s in the stable checking on his horse. I’m sure he’ll be back soon. Shall I help ye up to yer quarters?”
“I’d rather wait down here.”
Mrs. Gwynne glanced toward the common room and frowned. “I don’t think ye ought,” she said in a whisper. “A few travelers arrived early this mornin’. I don’t like the look of ’em. They were askin’ questions about our guests. Tryin’ to be casual about it.” She tapped the side of her nose. “But I’ve seen enough of ’em squirrely sort to know that I should have m’guard up. I told ’em they were welcome to take a hearty meal in the common room, but couldn’t stay the night.”
Dillie tried to peer over the portly woman’s shoulder. “Which ones are they?”
“Them two over there.”
She pointed to a pair of men who were dressed decently but appeared quite rough around the edges. “They do look squirrely.”
“You keep away from ’em, Miss Dillie.” She tapped her nose again. “They’re fidgeters. See how their eyes dart from their tankards to the door? And how they duck their heads whenever someone approaches their table? They’re up to something, mark my words.”
“Has His Grace been warned about them?”
“Not yet. I’ll warn him as soon as he returns.”
They heard a commotion at the door. “That must be ’im now.”
But it wasn’t Ian, just more squirrely knaves, as Mrs. Gwynne would say. “Inn’s full,” she told the pair. “Ye’re welcome to a hot meal and then ye’d best be on yer way. There’s another inn up the road a little ways.”
One of the men fished a shiny coin from his pocket, which surprised Dillie. The pair were poorly dressed, even accounting for the bad weather, and appeared more suited to a dockside tavern than a respectable inn. She hadn’t thought them capable of raising thruppence between them. “Ride off in this storm?” one of the men questioned. “Here’s for yer trouble. We’ll stay the night in yer stable.”
Mrs. Gwynne was about to refuse, but her husband chose that moment to pass by. He saw the silver coin and nodded. “Of course, gentlemen. Have ye eaten?” He glanced into the common room and seemed pleased that it was filling. He motioned to a passing maid. Dillie held her breath, realizing who it was as the innkeeper summoned her over. “Elsie, come here. Take care of these gentlemen.”
The girl bustled to him, saw Dillie, and stiffened. “At once, Mr. Gwynne.” She hastily led the men to a table—or rather, the men pointed to their desired table, which happened to be near the other two shady-looking knaves. Elsie took their orders and then glanced at the entry where Dillie still stood. She appeared angry and hurt, but not at all remorseful for the mischief she’d caused.
Dillie had hoped the girl would take Hilda’s warning to heart, but from the look of her, she doubted it. Sighing, she considered returning to her room, but decided against it. The walk down those steps had exhausted her. More important, the newly arrived knaves had just made eye contact with the other two men, as though passing a signal. She wasn’t well versed in the art of intrigue, but something was going on. Those men had taken pains to avoid everyone else’s gaze.
A shiver ran up Dillie’s spine. Were they a ring of thieves? Even so, they wouldn’t be so bold as to carry out a theft in broad daylight. Certainly not in front of the inn’s patrons, most of whom could later identify them. Mrs. Gwynne had made no bones about being on to them. Surely they realized it.
“Miss Dillie, are ye certain ye wouldn’t rather be upstairs?” Mrs. Gwynne asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“Truly, I’m fine right here. I’ll stay out of your way.”
The woman gave a little cluck and rubbed her hands on her worn apron. “Ye aren’t in my way at all, m’dear. I’ll check on the kitchen staff and be back in a trice to tend to ye.”
“You needn’t hurry.” Dillie returned her attention to the newly arrived men. She watched Elsie set a tankard in front of each, but they had barely touched their drinks before one of them rose and sauntered back into the entry hall where she still stood.
She pretended not to notice him by studying a painting displayed on one of the walls. However, she tightened her grip on the iron shovel she’d been using as support, ready to use it if he came too close.
Fortunately, the man ignored her. His companion followed him out a moment later. Elsie hurried after them. “Sirs! Shall I set yer drinks aside?”
The pair glanced at each other. “Aye, lass. We won’t be long,” one of them said with a smirk.
Dillie did not like that ugly smirk.
She scurried to the window as soon as they walked out, her heart beating a little faster as she watched them stride toward the stable. Then the two gentlemen who had arrived first and been sitting in the common room avoiding everyone’s glances walked past her and out the door. They moved with purpose, also toward the stable. Ian was in there. “Elsie,” she said in a rush, casting aside her anger toward the girl, “find Mr. Gwynne. Tell him there’s trouble brewing and I need him to meet me in the stable. He’d better bring a couple of his men.”
“I’m sorry, Miss. I’m busy. Ye’ll have to find ’im yerself.”
Dillie grabbed the girl’s arm as she was about to turn away. “I think those scoundrels mean to harm the duke.”
That caught Elsie’s notice. She gasped and took off in a hurry, calling for Mr. Gwynne.
Dillie took off as well, moving as fast as she could toward the stable, though a turtle could have outrun her in her present state. She leaned on the shovel, trying not to howl with each painful step. Her injured foot, which had only a stocking for protection against the elements, was soaking wet and throbbing by the time she reached the stable.
She walked in carefully, trying to make not a sound even when she saw the boy who tended the horses sprawled on the hay-strewn ground. “Get help,” he said in a pained whisper, carefully rolling to his feet. “I think they’ve killed His Grace.”
***
Although Napoleon’s war had long since ended, Ian’s senses had remained on heightened alert. He’d always been cautious and distrustful of others, even more so after being carved up in front of Dillie’s townhouse on Chipping
Way, courtesy of his loving family.
Damn.
Ian knew something was wrong. Young Harry, the talkative boy who’d greeted him when he’d first entered the stable, was suddenly nowhere to be found. The boy had followed him into Prometheus’ stall, chattering like a magpie the entire time. Wanting a moment’s quiet, Ian had sent him off on a made-up errand to fetch another bucket of oats. The lad had gone off some time ago and not yet returned. And now the horses were agitated, particularly Prometheus, who whinnied and kicked the wooden boards of his stall. “What’s wrong, fellow?” Ian held out a hand to stroke his nose, but the beast would not be soothed.
Damn again.
Trouble.
Could it be local ruffians? He dismissed the notion. Mr. Gwynne would ban them forever from his taproom. No, locals seeking to do mischief would wait until he was on the road to accost him.
He felt a tug at his heart, realizing what was about to happen. He’d warned his family against further attempts to harm him, but it seemed they hadn’t been dissuaded. Did they hate him so bitterly? Wasn’t the generous allowance he’d granted each of them enough?
Sighing, he reached into his boot and withdrew the knife he always carried for protection. The two characters who’d come after him on Chipping Way were now languishing in prison. His family must have retained other vermin to do their bidding. It really didn’t matter who’d been sent or how many of them were now about to attack him, for he knew who’d sent them and that’s what ate him up inside.
He strained to listen for footsteps, but the earthen ground was soft and damp, muffling all steps. Then he heard a soft creak to his left and knew that at least one of the assailants had crept to the adjoining stall. He heard another creak to his right. In the next moment, both men came at him with knives in hand.
He narrowly avoided being slashed by the first man and managed to slam a nearby empty bucket into the second man’s face, causing him to curse and fall backward into Prometheus’ stall. He whirled and cracked that same bucket over the first man’s head as the bastard attempted again to slash him. The knife flew out of the man’s hand, and as he knelt to retrieve his fallen weapon, Ian gave him another good, hard crack over the head with that bucket and knocked him out cold.