The Marquess

by Patricia Rice

  “You needn’t take your guard duty quite so personally,” a voice said reflectively above him. “You could have slept in the bed in the next room. Or had you meant to present Sleeping Beauty with that rose as soon as she woke? I hadn’t thought you so romantic.”

  Gavin scowled at the perfect red rosebud between his fingers. The damned little witch! He would catch her one of these days, and then there would be hell to pay. His hand instinctively checked the hood of the cloak he’d used for warmth. He felt an odd relief that it remained in place. Realizing that he’d feared scaring a ghost, he gave a mental curse.

  He glanced at the lamps burning their last oil up and down the hall. He’d wasted all that for nothing. Maybe he should just give up the chase and let the witch wander as she would.

  “Your confounded invalid walks in her sleep,” he grunted, pulling himself to his feet. The old wound in his side made him wince, but he kept his face turned away, as was his habit.

  “So you thought you’d light her way?” Michael asked quizzically. “That’s an odd approach. Does she walk in the gardens, too? You must have amazing healing powers.”

  Gavin shoved the rose in his pocket at his brother’s glance. “Never mind. Where the hell have you been? It doesn’t take this long traveling to Dover and back. We need a decent physician to look at the lady’s eyes. And she’s worried about her servants. She wants to send her solicitor a note. Since you haven’t seen fit to tell me who you suspect, I didn’t dare send the note she wrote.”

  Michael shrugged. “I delivered one for her. The solicitor has sent the lady’s servants to one of her other homes to air it out and make it comfortable for her return. Why don’t you take her the rose? She can smell it, at least. You’ll need to hurry with the wooing. The duke is half frantic and prepared to take all of England apart. He’ll start on the Continent next since I’ve told him I found the carriage in Dover, and I’m currently supposed to be checking ship bookings.”

  “Damn you, Michael! I don’t need any damned dukes breathing down my neck! If the lady is in some danger, why don’t you just call in the authorities?”

  Gavin didn’t even question his brother’s other statements. He knew Michael’s devious methods too well. He didn’t want to know which scheme his brother employed to delude the poor duke, or how he’d forged the lady’s signature.

  “Dukes are the authority around here. Neville’s too involved in government to spend much time looking for a lost cousin. He might spread his wealth around and hire another investigator or two besides me, but you can handle those pennyweights. Just concentrate on wooing the lady. In six months time she’ll be rich as Croesus. You’ll make her an excellent husband, far better than the arrogant duke.”

  Michael started drifting off in the direction of the stairs. Gavin caught his shoulder and shoved him up against the wall.

  “Are you telling me that the lady really isn’t in any danger except from an amorous cousin?”

  “Someone burned the house down,” Michael pointed out logically. “The duke is her only close relative. I’m certain their solicitor has apprised him of who inherits her fortune. She has put off his requests for a decision on their marriage for over a year. The date when she comes into her own wealth is drawing closer. You may draw your own conclusions.”

  “I conclude this is all humbug to throw the heiress in my direction,” Gavin announced stiffly. “Go find a physician for the lady. Once she can see again, her desire to remain under my protection will end quickly enough.”

  He strode off toward the master chamber, leaving Michael whistling, unperturbed, at the head of the stairs.

  * * * *

  “Dillian, is that you?” Hearing someone enter, Blanche looked up from her listless contemplation of the square of yellow light that represented the window.

  “Expecting that she-devil, are we?” The voice contained a mixture of laughter and annoyance.

  Blanche strained to remember where she had heard that voice last, but her memories of this past week were so jumbled she couldn’t place it. “Who are you?” she demanded sharply.

  “Arrah, now, and here I thought you would be remembering the likes of Michael O’Toole after that delightful evening in the gardens of your grand house while we searched about for your little pussycat. I’m that hurt, I am.”

  “Michael O’Toole! What in the name of heaven are you doing here? How did you find me?” Worriedly, she asked, “Did Neville send you?”

  “And you think I would have aught to do with a spalpeen like that? Faith, and you have little opinion of me. ’Twas me what brought you here, my lady. His Grace was that set on moving your lovely self to the Hall, and I thought as how you spoke so harshly of the place, that I would bring you here where you might reside in comfort instead.”

  “Comfort! O’Toole, you have maggots for brains. I have no maid. I’ve been deprived of my companion and kept in less than respectability by a strange man who is excessively reluctant to carry on a civil conversation. I want these infernal bandages off so I might write my solicitor with better instructions. I can do nothing but sit here and vegetate! This is your idea of comfort?”

  She was normally not one to berate her servants, but she remembered O’Toole quite clearly now. Insufferably obnoxious and ingratiatingly clever, he was also too damned good-looking for his own good. The maids had nearly swooned every time he turned that charming Irish smile on them.

  She couldn’t imagine why she had hired him in the first place. In fact, she couldn’t remember hiring him. He’d just appeared one day wearing her livery and helped chase her cat through the kitchen garden.

  “The master of this household has waited upon you personally, my lady!” O’Toole replied in a voice of outrage. “He would have no one know of your whereabouts for fear others would do ye harm. The poor man is nearly white from lack of sleep, and him a lordly marquess and all. He is that worried about you. The poor man was by way of being smitten from the moment he set eyes on your fair face, my lady, and that’s the truth of it.”

  “O’Toole, I am not a ninnyhammer to take your Spanish coin. Go spread it elsewhere.”

  “Yes, O’Toole, take your gaff and stuff it.”

  A coldly masculine voice intervened before Blanche could loose any further invectives at her footman’s head. She recognized the tone of her warden, as she’d come to style him. He certainly didn’t have the sound of an ardent suitor.

  “Wait!” she ordered before she could lose this one contact with the outside world. “What of my servants, O’Toole? Have they found places? Has my solicitor acted yet in their behalf?”

  O’Toole’s Irish brogue softened as he replied, “That he has, my lady. They’re airing out the Hampshire house for you, preparing for your return. I took the liberty of assuring them of your safety.”

  “Thank you,” she said gravely. “Now, if you would be so good as to fetch my companion from wherever she is abiding and have my maid pack a trunk of clothes from Hampshire and send them to me, I will be most appreciative.”

  Blanche listened to the silence that fell after this command. She wondered how they would take Dillian’s abrupt appearance. Dillian hadn’t found any good way to announce her arrival.

  “Yes, O’Toole,” the supposed marquess responded gravely, “go fetch the lady’s companion and her garments while you are also finding a good physician. And see that you return in good time for a change, no more gawking at maids or lifting an elbow at taverns.”

  Blanche wished she could see O’Toole’s face at this command. She did not possess the boldness to speak her opinion of the man’s excuses, but the marquess had nailed him quite succinctly. She waited for the glib reply, the laughing rejoinder, but she only heard a curt “Aye, aye, your lordship” and the sound of departing boots. He left her feeling rather bereft. The marquess might be all that was proper, but he was deadly dull also.

  She heard the thunk of something hard hitting the table beside the chair where she sat.

&nb
sp; “I’ve brought flowers, my lady. The day is warm, and they have a pretty smell. Shall I open the window for you?”

  She almost laughed at his awkwardness. As daughter of a marquess, granddaughter of a duke, and an heiress in her own right, she was accustomed to a great deal of male flattery. Men bowed and kissed her hand and quoted passionate verses for her amusement. This man just thunked what was probably a pewter cup on the table and said the equivalent of “there you are.”

  “I would like that very much, my lord,” she murmured politely. If nothing else, she was always polite. The fact that she wanted to scream and stamp her feet with frustration had nothing to do with anything.

  She felt the warm spring breeze rush in as he pushed open the squeaking window. She longed to be outside, grubbing among her flower bulbs, playing with her kitten, laughing at Dillian’s nonsense. She supposed she would never do those things again. Even if she were not blind, she must start facing facts. She was almost twenty-one years old and the possessor of a great fortune. She would have to marry and accept her responsibilities.

  With wistfulness, she inquired, “Is the scar very bad?”

  He hesitated before answering. He was the most cautious, irritating man she had ever met, but she waited patiently for his reply. She had little choice. She couldn’t see the mirror herself.

  “What scar?” he asked uncertainly.

  That seemed an idiotic question, but she answered, “I can feel how it pulls at my skin. It must look terrible.”

  Gentle fingers traced the line of her jaw. “It seems a sin that anyone should wish harm to such beauty, my lady. I can tell very little of how it will look when it heals. Wounds such as these look far worse when fresh. I would not concern yourself about it unnecessarily. Even should a mark remain, your inner beauty would erase it.”

  Startled by the sudden switch from gruff bluntness to gentle flattery, Blanche didn’t dismiss his remarks as she would have if O’Toole had made them. Remembering that Dillian had told her this man hid himself in darkness and behind cloaks, she thought she understood some of the depth of his feelings. Cautiously, she placed her fingers on his rough hand as he started to withdraw it.

  “I thank you for taking me into your home despite your reluctance to do so. I hope someday I can reward you in kind.”

  He made a noise deep in his throat that may have been a grunt of approval or disbelief, she couldn’t tell which. She didn’t cling when he withdrew his hand.

  “You can reward me now by calling off your witch. My servants are convinced she is the ghost that portends terrible consequences. I have no desire to lose my cook.”

  Blanche fought a smile at this abrupt change in mood. The Monster of Effingham had returned.

  She couldn’t betray Dillian. Dillian was the only weapon she possessed. But if the marquess already guessed that she existed, then she would be weapon for not much longer. Still, she would prefer talking it over with her cousin before revealing anything.

  Rather than give the reply he sought, she merely answered, “Had I a witch of my own, sir, I would have her transform me into health again. Perhaps my presence is in some way disturbing your servants? Shall I come down and meet them? I cannot know how isolated we are out here. Would it not be safe just to meet a maid or your cook and reassure them?”

  The marquess growled and slammed a hand against a paneled wall. She could hear the loud clap and shivered inwardly. Her host evidently was not a small man, nor a physically frail one. What in heavens name had O’Toole got her into?

  “They gossip. All servants gossip. It will soon be out that we have a ghost. How long do you think it will take before your duke hears the rumors and wonders if the truth beneath them might relate to his missing cousin? You and your witch have nothing to fear from me, but if O’Toole is correct, you have something to fear from the duke. I leave you to consider it, my lady.”

  Chapter Four

  Dillian carefully dusted the charming watercolor she’d found in the attic. She’d never had a house of her own to decorate or putter around in. She rather enjoyed applying her imaginative tastes on this lovely chamber. She particularly enjoyed knowing she drove the monster mad every time he discovered another adornment in the master bedroom he had never used. She hung the painting next to the vanity, in a white space where another painting must have hung. ’Twas a pity she couldn’t find wallpaper or paint.

  Carefully checking the dark expanse of hallway outside the master chamber, she slipped toward the servants’ stairs. Blanche had fallen asleep hours ago. She couldn’t find the monster anywhere. The game of hiding from him grew a little thin. Blanche was right. She would just have to appear on the doorstep and say O’Toole had sent her.

  Unfortunately, unless she showed up in the bedraggled and filthy gown she’d worn while clinging to the carriage, she would have to appear in one of the unfashionable and outdated gowns from the attic wardrobes. Men might not know a great deal about ladies’ attire, but even Effingham would suspect something if she arrived in that French gown with no carriage in sight.

  Her mind nibbled at the puzzle as her feet found the places on the stairs that didn’t creak. She’d worked out the progression over these last nights: first step to the right, second to the center edge, third to the inside left. She thought it much like learning a dance routine, but the next to last step was a little tricky. Her legs had some difficulty reaching from the right side of one tread to the far left side of the next.

  She winced and grabbed the wall as her slippered foot slid on the tricky step. She froze, waiting for the monster’s heavy footsteps to come running. He had not gone out once in all these nights but lay awake waiting to catch her. Didn’t the man have any social life at all? What did he do for women? All men kept women in her experience, except for the ones who were a little strange. The Monster of Effingham might be odd, but she didn’t think him the type to dislike female companionship.

  Surprised when she heard no rush of running feet, she shrugged. Perhaps he’d finally given up the game. She meant no harm. Surely, he understood that by now. She’d tried showing him by decorating his chamber. Now he could sleep in comfort instead of on the narrow sofa in his study.

  Not that he’d slept in the bed yet. If he had any brains at all, he should have known he would put an end to her best escape hatch by sleeping in the room where the secret passage ended. Perhaps he grew bored with the game also.

  Deciding no one had heard her misstep, Dillian gently pushed open the door at the bottom of the staircase. Her tallow candle blew in the draft through this back hall, but it illuminated no hulking giant in the shadows.

  That was an unfair description, she thought as she slipped down the hall in the direction of the kitchen. Effingham didn’t really hulk. The monster stalked these halls with a certain flair and elegance. She rather liked the swashbuckling sight of his cloak billowing out behind him as he raced down the stairs in an effort to cut her off. For a man so tall, he moved gracefully. She wished, just once, she could dance with a man like that.

  Dillian blew out the candle as she stole through the kitchen doorway. The cook slept as lightly as her employer. She didn’t wish to disturb her sleep any more than necessary. She just wanted to see what delicious fare she could scavenge from this night’s dinner. She wondered idly if Blanche could steal this cook away should she ever return to her proper place.

  “Aha! Caught you!”

  A large shadow materialized from the hidden alcove behind the stove, directly in her path. Dillian gasped, dropped the candle, and fled down the corridor beside the pantry.

  * * * *

  Gavin cursed as he ran after the ghost and saw nothing but closed doors. He stopped and listened, but he could only hear himself breathing. He’d been so damned close...

  She was just a slip of a thing. She couldn’t possibly outrun him. Unless he wanted to believe in ghosts, she had to be hiding behind one of these doors.

  He opened the shutter of the lantern he carried and
threw its beam into the first doorway on his right. A closet of cleaning equipment. He could see no possible hiding place in there. He crossed the hall and threw open the next door. An empty chamber, no doubt intended for some lower servant. The same with the next one. Cursing now, he continued down the hall. She had to be here somewhere.

  Gavin swung around at a loud groan and creak behind him. What in hell?

  He raced back the way he had just come, but he could find no source for the noise. He stared at the wall from which it emanated. The creak of ropes and pulley came from over his head now. The dumbwaiter, damn the little witch!

  Taking to his heels, he raced up the servants’ stairs. He thought he knew this house inside and out, but he’d spent little time in the servants’ quarters. He didn’t know how she’d found the dumbwaiter, but he knew what one was and where it would go. This time, she couldn’t escape.

  The servants’ stairs led to the main block of the old portion of the house. A maze of corridors led behind the walls of the salons and public rooms in this section. Ingeniously hidden doors opened into all the main rooms so the servants might come and go without guests seeing them in the public hall. Gavin knew exactly which door opened into the huge, drafty formal dining chamber.

  He burst through and nearly fell over a broken chair laying in front of the never-used door. Even his cousin-in-law, the antique dealer, had given up any hope of selling the enormous furniture in here. Carved pediments representing dozens of Greek gods supported a massive table long enough to seat a starving army. From the scars in the old wood, a starving army must have dined off it without benefit of plates. Then they’d had a free-for-all with the heavily carved, hideously uncomfortable chairs. Gavin stumbled over another one on his way around the room, searching for the door leading to the dumbwaiter.

  There had to be one. Food would have arrived icy cold if maids had carried it up the way he had just come. And he knew the sound of ropes and pulleys when he heard it.