“When the heir apparent died without issue before his father, the old duke made out his will leaving Blanche’s father everything, but Blanche’s father died at Waterloo shortly after he became the new marquess. The old duke could not stop the title or the entailment going to his youngest son, Neville’s father, but he refused to change his will leaving everything to Blanche’s family, making it nigh on impossible for Neville’s family to make any changes in the estate without the cooperation of Blanche’s family.”
The marquess grimaced. “I need something stronger than tea to sustain me through this. Why don’t we get to the point? Tell me who is responsible for the fortune Lady Blanche has apparently inherited?”
Dillian gave him an impatient look. “That is what I’m trying to tell you. Blanche’s grandfather outlived all three of his sons. Neville’s father died of small pox a few years ago. The old man was not only distraught, but furious. He distrusted Neville. He wanted Anglesey to go on as it has always done, and the estate came before anyone or anything. He knew Blanche loved Anglesey and would take care of it, but only Neville could inherit it. So he arranged it so her inheritance and Neville’s are so entangled and guarded by the same trustees that the only way either of them can get anything out of it is to marry each other.”
“Unless one of them dies,” he summarized dryly.
Dillian made a face. “That is one way of looking at it. If Blanche dies without marrying, her inheritance reverts to Anglesey. The old duke didn’t want to bankrupt his estate, he merely wished to force Neville into accepting Blanche.”
“But once he married her, what power would she have to prevent him from doing what he wished? I understood that wives have no rights of possession.”
Dillian grinned. “That’s where the old man made a mistake. He had it in his head that lovely, docile Blanche wanted Anglesey so much that she would marry Neville without question. He meant only to force Neville. So he set Blanche’s inheritance up as a trust which her husband cannot touch. Neville would have to beg for every penny. If she marries before she comes of age, the trustees will most likely grant her husband a large dower. But once she comes of age, she can control her own fortune. She would very much like to have Anglesey, but not at the cost of marrying Neville and giving up her independence, not to mention a large share of her fortune. They have reached an impasse.”
“When does she come of age?”
“In October.”
The marquess stretched out his long booted legs and stared at his toes. “That gives Neville nearly six months to either persuade her into marriage or kill her.”
“Well, she could marry another. Neville couldn’t touch her inheritance, then. Her husband would have control of the dower amount. She would have the power to will the remainder to her husband and children if she so chose.”
Dillian didn’t mention the estate Blanche’s mother had left to her, the one they currently occupied. That wasn’t protected by a trust but would instantly become her husband’s property if Blanche married before she had control over it. It was also normally biddable Blanche’s strongest reason for not marrying until she turned twenty-one.
Dillian worried about the consequences of Blanche’s determination not to marry until then, but since Blanche had found no suitor she madly desired, Dillian had not concerned herself greatly until now. The possibility that marriage was the only way to save Blanche’s life concerned her deeply indeed.
The marquess continued frowning at his boots. “It all sounds like a bucket of sheep dip to me. Let Neville go find another heiress to support his fancy estate. I’m sure there are many willing to buy a duke.”
Dillian made a slight moue of puzzlement. “Neville has never shown much interest in any woman but Blanche. He enjoys politics. Even when they attend a ball together, he spends all his time in dark corners and smoky rooms, talking to his political cronies. I don’t think he has the time or interest to look elsewhere.”
“But he has time to hire arsonists? That doesn’t make sense.” The marquess stood up and pushed the heavy velvet draperies aside. “I’d better go. I want to keep a lookout on the grounds at night until you find those dogs.”
“You will have to wait until the servants retire if you don’t want to be seen,” she reminded him.
He threw an enigmatic look over his shoulder at her. “I can hide as well as you. Take away your tray and pretend your invalid is asleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
She didn’t like being ordered about. She might play the part of Blanche’s paid companion, but that had never been her role. Still, although she had little regard for propriety, lingering alone in Effingham’s presence suddenly made her nervous. She would do well to remove herself before he remembered how easily he had overpowered her earlier.
Picking up the tray, she left the marquess contemplating the nighttime.
* * * *
Neville arrived at Blanche’s door two days later. Dillian had purchased the geese just the day before. They squawked noisily around the carriage when the visitor climbed down, but the footman chased them from his impeccably polished boots. Dillian watched from an upstairs sitting room as the butler opened the front door before the duke even reached the bottom step. The long-suffering servants weren’t any more fond of the birds than Neville, but they hadn’t offered a complaint.
Dillian debated refusing to appear when summoned, but she saw no benefit in declaring war on Blanche’s powerful cousin. Not yet, anyway. She checked to make certain her cap held her wayward curls in place, then dawdled just long enough to irritate him.
When she entered the salon where the butler had placed him, Neville glared at her without his usual bland countenance. “Where is she?” he demanded.
Dillian crossed her hands in front of her and asked innocently, “Who?”
She thought for a moment that he might take the stick in his hand to her. He hadn’t even allowed the butler to take his hat or cane. He didn’t mean this as a polite visit, then.
“Where is Blanche? What have you done with her? I hold you entirely responsible if anything happens to her! I’ll have you up in assizes if one hair on her head is harmed.”
Dillian gave him her best irreproachably missish look. “Her hair has already been singed. I have trimmed it. Will you have me transported?”
He shook the cane in his hand at her. “Don’t give me that faradiddle, Miss Reynolds.” He called her by her mother’s name, the only one he knew her by. “Don’t think you have me fooled for a minute. I know you’re the reason she refuses to marry me. I can have you removed anytime I want. I am trying to be patient, but I want to know how my cousin is. Let me see her at once.”
Dillian fluttered her lashes. “She isn’t here.”
Furious, Neville shoved past her and toward the door. “I’ve had enough lies. I’ll see her now.”
Dillian stepped out of his way and let him pass. He knew little or nothing of this house since it had belonged to Blanche’s mother. She watched as he started up the stairs. “I wish you luck,” she called after him.
From his position at the back of the hall, the butler sent her a questioning look. Unsmiling, Dillian shook her head. Neville didn’t flaunt his power carelessly, but she wouldn’t risk the position of any of Blanche’s staff should he choose to do so now.
She heard him flinging doors and cursing. A footman and maid peeked through a door at the end of the hall but darted back at a frosty look from the butler. Biting her lower lip, Dillian waited for the duke’s rampage to lessen. Neville seldom worked himself into a rage. She doubted if he knew how to control one. She had no intention of standing in his way until he returned to some semblance of normality.
By the time he bellowed “Where is she?” with more frustration than fury, Dillian had her story composed. Climbing the stairs where they could speak out of range of the servants, she waited for him in the main hall. The lovely old wood gleaming in the sunshine from the windows on either end gave her a degree of confidence.
The old woven carpet had withstood the feet of generations. It would withstand the wear of many more if she had her way. She loved this house, and she would protect it any way she could. She just wouldn’t exchange it for Blanche’s life.
When Neville finally stood before her, he no longer looked his complacent, arrogant self. He looked thoroughly shaken. Dillian might have felt sorry for him had she not been there the night the house went up in flames and Blanche nearly died in the inferno.
“Where is she?” he demanded again, but in a less forceful manner.
“Safe,” Dillian answered calmly. “As safe as anyone can be knowing an arsonist wishes her dead. Did you think she would endanger her staff a second time?”
The duke’s lips tightened in frustration. “That is specious nonsense. Why would anyone kill Blanche? I want to see her. How do I know you haven’t harmed her for some sick reason of your own?”
“You don’t, not any more than I can believe you aren’t the one who harmed her in the first place. So we are at checkmate. You know she is alive. Your solicitor must have told you of the message he received. That’s all you need know. You can do nothing else for her but worry her to death.”
He slammed his fist into the old paneling. “I want to marry her, not worry her to death. She needs the best physicians. You must return her to London.”
“How do you know she isn’t there already? I have no control over Blanche’s actions. It’s not my place. I’m simply here to supervise the staff.”
“Then, she’s coming here or she wouldn’t have sent you ahead. I want to know the instant she arrives.” He looked at her shrewdly. “I’ll pay you well. I’ll double the money she saved for you.”
Dillian gave him a pitying smile. “I hope someday you’ll learn that friendship and loyalty buy more than all the gold on earth. Good day, Your Grace. I’ll have Jenkins see you out.”
Chapter Nine
Dillian frowned at the empty bedchamber. She’d found the marquess waiting here these past nights. She’d offered good food, wine, and coffee as lures, and he’d neatly fallen into the trap. Without Blanche, she found the house unbearably lonesome. The marquess had given her a few hours of interesting conversation and company of an evening, in return for her culinary offerings, of course.
She couldn’t believe he would miss his supper unless something dire had happened. She set the dinner tray on the table and pulled back the drapery. The night looked innocent enough. She saw no mobs, no lurking intruders. But the woods beyond the neatly cultivated lawns could hide an immensity of evil.
She sipped at her tea and waited. As the hour grew later, she paced. The food on the tray grew cold, and she didn’t notice. She had no appetite. Where could he be? What could have happened?
It was idiotic worrying about the madman. Just because she had lured him in here a few times didn’t mean the marquess would behave in any orderly fashion. By now he could have found an inn with an accommodating serving girl. He might have found an old friend on the road and gone home with him. Or he may have tired of the game and gone back to Hertfordshire. Anything was possible.
But none of the above seemed logical from what she knew of the reclusive marquess, and something in her rebelled at thinking he would have deserted her without good reason. She glanced out the window again, but there was even less to see than before. The servants had started turning out the lights on the lower floor.
She didn’t hear the geese. The guard dogs wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. She had no way of knowing if anyone lurked out there. Perhaps she should go out and see for herself.
Dillian dropped the drapery again, knowing the foolishness of that notion. If the marquess had found trouble, he would come here if he could. She was useless roaming around lost in the dark.
After another hour, she left the tray of cold food in Blanche’s room and returned to her own. She told herself she had no reason to worry over a grown man who could obviously take care of himself. Any man who had survived whatever he’d gone through to earn those scars could defend himself. She would do well to look after her own concerns.
Unable to sleep, she slipped downstairs to check the doors and locks. She found the footman she’d assigned guard duty and made him test the fastenings also. He didn’t question her orders but immediately took the east and north sides of the house while she took the west and south. They met again in the middle with no signs of disturbance anywhere.
Deciding she was being ridiculous, Dillian trudged back upstairs. The marquess had no obligation to report to her every evening. He was under no obligation at all.
Surely, he would have told her that he had everything under control and meant to leave. Wouldn’t he have waited for the guard dogs? And what about the walls? Didn’t he want to hear about the stonemasons she’d hired?
The argument careened back and forth inside her head, but she could discover no means of satisfying it. Instinct told her the marquess would have come if able, but instincts were notoriously unreliable. She didn’t know the man well enough to trust her instincts around him.
Reluctantly, Dillian unfastened the buttons of her round gown and folded it neatly over a chair. She must find some way to dispose of all that food before she took the tray down in the morning.
The servants hadn’t sent up as much as usual tonight. The duke’s visit had thrown some doubt over the plausibility of Blanche’s presence. She didn’t know if she could continue the charade any longer. That was one of those things she had wished to discuss with the marquess. She really should get over this foolish notion that she could rely on the man, that she could rely on any man. She knew better.
She blew out all but the candle at her bedside and unfastened the ties of her chemise. Perhaps she ought to take a horse out in the morning and search the grounds. The head groom could search the woods. She wished she could go out now, but in the dark, the search would be fruitless.
The candle threw long shadows across the walls as she reached for the nightshift left lying across the covers. She felt the draft before she heard the window casement click. She’d scarcely opened her mouth to scream before the draperies parted and a dark cloaked figure stepped through.
The thrill of relief so flooded her that Dillian didn’t remember her state of undress until she caught sight of the marquess’s taut jaw and the direction of his stare in the candlelight.
Her unfastened chemise revealed the full curve of her breasts and the valley between. Even the cool breeze from the window didn’t lessen the heat flooding through her as she swung around and presented him with her back.
Dillian wrapped her arms across her chest. “What on earth do you think you’re doing coming in here like this?” she asked crossly.
Effingham didn’t answer for what seemed like eternity. She hated it when he did that. She wanted to swing around and scream at him, but she was belatedly aware that she didn’t have a robe at hand, and her nightshift lay on the bed behind her. She wore only her chemise, and the candle undoubtedly accentuated that fact.
The folds of his dark cloak dropped over her shoulders, and Dillian grasped them gratefully, pulling the heavy material around her, understanding he stood entirely too close to give her this aid.
“I’ve caught a trespasser,” he murmured near her ear.
Why hadn’t she noticed the stirring rasp of that low voice before? Or the way it sent shivers down her spine?
“I thought you might like to see if he’s anyone you know before I dispose of him.”
Dillian heard his wry tone as he moved away, but she didn’t try to determine if he directed it at her or himself. If she had learned nothing else about the marquess, it was that he held no high opinion of himself like some others she could name. Still, his proximity made her nervous. She clutched the cloak tighter as she felt him back away.
“I will have to dress.” To her dismay, her teeth chattered. She wanted to blame it on the cool air from the window, but she knew better. Goose bumps ran up and down her arms, but
not from the cold. Her breasts felt swollen and tight. She could barely speak past the lump in her throat.
“Of course. I’ll wait for you outside.”
She heard the coolness in his voice. She wanted to swing around and read his expression, confront him somehow, but she couldn’t. She stood frozen, not even caring how he meant to get outside just so long as he went.
The window clicked, and the breeze stopped. She didn’t wonder how he’d entered a second-floor window. If she’d needed proof he’d been in the navy, she had it now. She couldn’t imagine any other but a sailor climbing-those vines outside the window.
She still held his cloak around her. She shivered inside its comforting confines. A moment later, she realized the cloak smelled of him, of the elusive male fragrance that identified the marquess in her mind. She had never thought about a man’s smell before. Now she couldn’t get it out of her head.
She checked to make certain the room was empty, even though she sensed its emptiness now that his strong presence had gone. She felt stark naked and embarrassed right down to her toes, but he hadn’t said a word about her state of undress.
Had she not seen Effingham’s eyes, she could almost pretend that he hadn’t seen her. But she’d seen the way his gaze had focused hungrily on her breasts. He hadn’t even looked at her face. She burned with shame—or something else.
Dillian wouldn’t think about that something else. She hadn’t reached twenty-five years of age without learning a little about human nature. At sixteen, she’d had a passionate crush on the vicar’s son. His every casual touch had sent her into paroxysms of joy. She’d sneaked off to meet him in the woods, behind haystacks, anywhere they could steal a few moments together.
He’d been the same age as she. Neither of them knew anything they were about, but pleasure had mixed with the excitement of the forbidden, and they had learned a great deal together. Fortunately for her, she’d learned more about his character than his physical body before they’d gone too far to go back. No man had so easily led her astray since.
The Marquess Page 10