She couldn’t think of the consequences of the impossible while faced with the very real danger presented by Blanche’s appearance. Dillian idly poked at the pins sticking her. “If I’m the target of this murderer, we’re endangering Blanche by keeping her anywhere near me. And if she’s the target, it won’t do at all having her where everyone knows her.”
“No one notices ladies maids,” Blanche protested. “I’m perfectly safe here. And you’re much better off with me instead of some incompetent servant the kidnappers might bribe.”
The idea of using Blanche as her maid horrified Dillian. Her opinion apparently carried to her face, because Michael intervened before she could offer her objections.
“If the villains have figured out you were traveling with Gavin, then Arinmede is a prime target. Blanche couldn’t stay there. It will be much easier protecting the two of you together.”
Dillian frowned, distracted by this new topic. “I don’t understand how anyone could know I was with him. It doesn’t make good sense. I think they just wanted a woman, and I happened to be there.”
“You went past a tollbooth, didn’t you?”
Dillian shrugged. “I believe so. Mac handled the transaction. Lord Effingham and I were inside.”
“Did you keep your voices down? Could anyone have overheard you?”
She tried to think back. “I don’t know. We were fighting at the time. I don’t think we spoke much. What difference would it make? A toll collector isn’t likely to know me.”
“But if he had a soldier demanding the names of every occupant of any carriage that passed, he might pay closer attention than you expect. If you didn’t deliberately keep quiet, or if Mac didn’t keep his gob shut, he’d know a lady traveled in the carriage. The carriage has the Effingham crest. Everyone knows the marquess keeps no company. A lady traveling with him would raise suspicion.”
“A soldier could have just demanded that I get out and introduce myself. He wouldn’t have to send highwaymen to drag me out, screaming, in the middle of the night.”
Even Blanche’s eyes widened before Michael said out loud the thought that followed.
“If the soldiers take orders from Neville, and he’s the villain, they wouldn’t want a kidnapping traced back to him, would they? They’d hire someone else to look into the matter.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Soaking his abused muscles in the Earl of Mellon’s luxurious bathtub, Gavin let his thoughts drift over ideas he would never have considered just a few weeks ago. Women did that to men, scrambled their minds until they could no longer think straight.
Just a few weeks ago he’d had only one goal: scrape, squeeze, and dig enough money out of the estate to buy the lands surrounding Arinmede so he and Michael would never starve again. So far, he hadn’t found the owner of those lands, so he’d invested in lucrative funds until he did.
The manor itself was a worthless ruin. Any money spent there would be a foolish waste of his few precious resources. The antiques and paintings and other valuables that his predecessor had left to rot had provided an unexpected gold mine, thanks to Marian’s husband, Reginald Montague. Reginald could turn a crumbling volume of poetry into filthy lucre.
But now Gavin sat here contemplating aching muscles and old age. He had barely turned one more year than thirty, but he felt the stiffness of old injuries, knew he lacked the agility that had saved his life more than once. He’d let Dillian’s screams distract him from trussing the first villain, and his fury at her near abduction had made him careless with the second. He’d only had his wits and strength to keep him alive all these years, and both seemed on the wane. He’d been humbled before, but not like this.
He could blame Dillian, he supposed. Women, unwittingly or not, had been the downfall of many a man; he could attest to that. Had Michael just left well enough alone and allowed the two women to find their own way, he would now rest happily at the manor without a care in the world beyond himself.
They had a permanent roof over their heads for a change, although Michael didn’t like spending much time under it. They had good food in their bellies. They didn’t need to chase about London looking after two females. But the instant the women hit their lives, he wound up with aching muscles and a mind that couldn’t fasten on one topic longer than two minutes, and now he was expected to gallivant around London like a bloody marquess.
Gavin sipped the brandy one of the earl’s thoughtful servants had provided, setting it back on the table beside the tub as the warm liquor slid down his throat. He contemplated the pleasures of living like this all the time, of having Dillian in the tub here with him.
Lord, but that thought made still another muscle ache. Gavin eyed his rising flesh ruefully. He’d start having foolish notions about marriage soon if he didn’t get rid of this obsession with the blasted little termagant.
He relaxed against the high tub back. He wouldn’t have to worry about marriage with Dillian around. She had her own obsessions, and they weren’t about him. She’d made that clear enough.
He’d met women with fixed ideas before, but they normally fixed them on marriage. Dillian had her mind fastened on the Grange and keeping Blanche out of Neville’s hands.
He and the termagant made a good pair, if he did say so himself. Except, somehow, Dillian had diverted him from his goals to hers.
Scowling, Gavin reached for the towel. He’d much rather corner the duke, grab his lapels, and shake the papers from him, then threaten him within an inch of his life should he come near the women again.
He supposed that kind of behavior only worked in the uncivilized environs he’d inhabited as a youth. Here in civilized England, the duke would no doubt call out His Majesty’s Royal Guards or whatever and have Gavin and everyone else arrested. He really should learn more about the powers of a marquess.
That gave him a mission more to his liking. To hell with scheming women. He’d talk to Reginald. As the younger son of an earl, Montague knew about these things, or he’d know who to ask. Idly, Gavin wondered if his American scorn of aristocracy had thrown away opportunities he didn’t know about. If he had the bloody title of marquess, he might as well make the most of it.
With that decisive action in mind, Gavin climbed out of the tub and prepared to dress.
He accepted the shirt handed him without thinking, then jerked to attention and swung around. Scowling, he confronted the man who didn’t belong there. “How the hell did you get past that overdressed prick at the door?”
Without his black wig and wearing the earl’s livery, Michael merely shrugged. “Don’t rely on the earl’s servants to protect your back. They’re soft. Dismouth is hosting a small soiree next Friday night. You and Miss Whitnell will have invitations. Have you seen a tailor yet?”
The white lines crossing Gavin’s jaw tightened as he glared at his brother. “I’m not wasting good coin on foolish frippery just to dance attendance on these fashionable fribbles. I’ll have Reginald get me into White’s. I can do just as much there as at any party. Let the ladies play games. I mean to have the business done and over.”
“The Duke of Anglesey doesn’t go to White’s. Half the cabinet you wish to meet doesn’t go there. You would have to join every gentlemen’s club in town to meet everyone. Every last one of them will be at Dismouth’s soiree, however. Wear your cloak, an eye patch, and boots if you like, but get yourself there. We must establish your consequence so we can get those journals into the right hands if it becomes necessary. I have my hands full keeping those two females corralled.”
Gavin looked down at his unshod feet. “I could use a new pair of shoes.” Then he returned his glare to Michael. “But I’ll not wear those ridiculous knee breeches.”
“Fine. You won’t be the only one. You can introduce yourself to Lady Darley today so she can formally introduce you to Miss Whitnell on Friday. She’s expecting you. And I’ve made up a list of the best tailors—”
“Out!” Gavin roared, pointing at the
door. “I’ll not meet any damned Lady Anything. I’ll not be pricked and prodded by man milliners. I’ll buy a pair of shoes and show up at your party, and that’s the extent of it, although what in hell I’ll do when I get there, I can’t fathom. I can just see me stabbing an oyster and inquiring over the dinner table as to the whereabouts of Colonel Whitnell’s diaries.” This last he muttered as he buttoned his shirt and reached for his trousers.
When Michael didn’t immediately leave as ordered, Gavin looked up with another scowl. “And what did you do with Lady Blanche that you can be here deviling me?”
“The lady decided of her own accord that she wished to aid her cousin. The only way I could hold her was to hog-tie her, so I let her have her way.” At the alarmed look in Gavin’s eyes, he added hastily, “I brought her lady’s maid with her. At least they’re all under one roof now where I can keep an eye on them.”
Gavin slammed his fist against a wall, and the bedroom door immediately popped open to reveal a nervous servant asking if he wished anything. The man flinched and retreated when Gavin turned his glare on him.
Satisfied that he hadn’t completely lost his touch, he sat on the bed to tug on his well-worn boots. “And you have the lady right where the duke can find her. You’d have done better to hog-tie her and hide her in the secret passage back at the manor.”
Michael picked up a silver-backed brush from the dresser and tossed it idly in the air, catching it with one hand, throwing it to the other, heaving it back in the air in a repeat pattern. “You’re the one with the touch for ladies, not me. And what did you mean by telling the she-devil I’m your brother? She’ll hold that over me until my dying day.” A fine tooth comb joined the brush in an airy dance.
“You are my brother. Put those damned things back and get out. The idea of those two loose in London gives me cold shivers. Someone should keep an eye on them.”
Michael juggled a snuffbox into the twirling pattern of brush and comb, squinting at the objects as he did so and ignoring the marquess. “You’re the one looking after the she-devil, not me. I brought you a damned duchess, and you settle for a penniless witch. I’ll never understand your thinking, your noble lordship. You like penny-pinching?”
Gavin stood up, grabbed the hairbrush from the pattern, and flung it at his brother. Not missing a beat, Michael caught it and flung the snuffbox at Gavin. Cursing, the marquess caught it and flung it back to the dresser.
“I’m not playing games with you. If your Lady Blanche is everything you say she is, she’ll find a more attractive, younger suitor than me. I don’t need a wife moping around all day asking when I’m taking her to London. Damn and blast it all, Michael, remove your hide from here and back to those women!”
Michael carefully caught the brush and comb and lay them on the dresser. “If the she-devil turns out to be the offspring of a traitor, her reputation will be ruined, and it could very well bring Lady Blanche down with it. The lady will have to marry her duke, then, and Miss Whitnell will be out in the cold. Think about that carefully, brother mine.”
Gavin growled something irritable as he looked in the mirror to tie his cravat. When next he looked up, Michael was gone.
Cursing the cravat, the empty room, and his brother’s insinuations, he reached for his coat. He had no desire at all to contemplate what would happen to Miss Whitnell should the duke throw her out of his cousin’s household. He only wished to contemplate how soon he could climb into her bed again.
The depressing possibility that it might not be for a long time sent him stomping down the stairs, leaving the Earl of Mellon’s staff quivering in their shoes as he swept out in a swirl of cloak and a menacing growl for his carriage.
* * * *
“They are my papers, Mr. Winfrey. Can you not see that after the fire, they are all that is left to me of my father?” That and the ones that had disappeared from Blanche’s vault. She really had no way of knowing which papers were where. “I wish them returned now.” Dillian repeated the same words she had already said in as many ways as she could, trying to get through to the bespectacled solicitor shaking his head across the desk from her.
She thought she might leap from her seat, grab his spectacles, and grind them into the floor if he took them off and polished them one more time.
“I’m sorry. Miss Reynolds, those books were brought in by Lady Blanche for safekeeping. I can only release them to Lady Blanche. I have already explained this. Should Lady Blanche be forthcoming, I will more than happily turn them over to her.”
“Lady Blanche was nearly murdered in her bed!” Dillian shouted. “Do you really think she will present herself in public for someone to try again? What if I bring a letter from her?”
She thought she saw a gleam of interest in his bespectacled eyes. She wished she could glare at him as Gavin could. She wanted to see him pale in fear.
“There is some concern as to the lady’s health, you understand. If you could bring her in, just so we may ascertain that all is well and she is not being coerced....”
“Coerced!” Dillian couldn’t stand it any longer. She rose from her respectful position in the hard chair and paced the wooden floor. She wore one of Blanche’s bonnets and a pelisse that almost matched one of her old gowns. She had striven for a look somewhere between menial companion and respectable lady. Her angry pacing now more resembled the colonel’s daughter.
“Did you think I would have her kidnapped? Did you think her so hen-witted as to be coerced by the likes of me into anything? Did you think at all, Mr. Winfrey? If you will not hand over my papers, I shall hire a solicitor of my own and sue you for slander and theft. I want my papers, and I want them now.” She leaned over the desk as she imagined the marquess would have done and glared at the solicitor.
Since she merely stood five-two and possessed half his weight, the solicitor did not look impressed. “You may do as you see fit. Miss Reynolds, but I shall certainly tell His Grace that I do not find you a suitable companion for his impressionable young cousin.”
Dillian straightened. “You do that, Mr. Winfrey. And I shall tell Blanche that Neville is certainly not a suitable husband. I have already told her that you are not a suitable solicitor. I think she will believe me now.”
She wished for Gavin’s cloak as she swirled around and stalked out of the stuffy office. She could not believe the man wouldn’t give her her own papers. They belonged to her father. He had no right holding them. Neville must be behind this. Perhaps she should confront Neville directly. She much preferred immediate action to planning and scheming.
Still fuming, she almost smacked into the marquess as she stormed into the street.
He caught her elbows before they crashed, then glanced up at the sign on the door behind her. “I take it you were not successful.”
She jerked her arms from his grasp. “I shall have Blanche give him notice at once. London is full of solicitors who will be eminently more accommodating. Let go of me. We are not supposed to know one another. Did you think to beard the lion yourself?”
His lips curled in amusement, and she wanted to smack him for that. The marquess didn’t look any more fashionable than he had at the Grange, but he did wear a curly-brimmed beaver hat which made his darkly sardonic face even more fascinating.
Beyond her fury, she melted beneath his gaze again. She hadn’t considered the hows and whens of their next bedding, but that expression on his face caused her to think of it now. She tried desperately not to blush.
“I had thought a reasonable discussion between gentlemen a possibility, but now I see I must resort to more drastic measures. You have no doubt turned him into an obdurate mule with your ranting and raving. What are you doing out here alone? I thought you had more sense than that.”
“I’m not alone, and it will spoil everything if we are seen together or if you show any interest in my affairs. Now, leave off, Effingham. I’m not completely incompetent.”
His eyes narrowed, but he tipped his hat with his
cane and walked off as if they had just bumped into each other and apologized for the inconvenience.
When Dillian turned to watch him go, she noticed the attention of several ladies along the street drawn toward his tall figure. With his scarred features turned toward the buildings beside him, they saw only the handsome countenance and arrogant stride. They ought to see his ugly character, she thought spitefully, proceeding toward her waiting carriage.
“Well, what did he say?” Blanche asked eagerly as Dillian climbed in and the carriage rolled on.
Blanche still wore her ridiculous veil but the sheets had been replaced by a nun’s habit. She now wore a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and white powder covering the red scars barely visible beneath the veil. Dillian grimaced at the disguise, but in the darkened carriage, her cousin couldn’t see the expression.
“He will not release the journals unless you ask for them. I do believe he thinks I have kidnapped or murdered you. I am willing to believe that even should you appear in person, he will call you an imposter.”
Blanche warily touched her cheeks. “Surely, I will not look so different that he wouldn’t recognize me. He must know I will have scars.”
“You won’t,” Dillian said steadfastly. “You will be fine as fivepence in no time. That is neither here nor there. I believe he is thoroughly in Neville’s employ. You must find a solicitor of your own.”
Blanche looked doubtful. “Mr. Winfrey has never given me reason to distrust him. He just has my best interests at heart. I should go in and show him I’m alive.”
“Looking like that?” Dillian asked skeptically. “He’ll have you committed to Bedlam. The marquess ought to commit that brother of his to Bedlam. I can’t believe he talked you into that hideous disguise.”
Blanche shrugged, in a careless gesture much like one Michael used. “If I cannot go about as myself, I must go about as somebody. If no one sees my hair or scars and I hide behind spectacles, they’ll never recognize me. People only see the outer trappings.”
The Marquess Page 24