The Marquess

by Patricia Rice

  “The last time a mob in London became angry,” he continued, “they nearly destroyed several streets and everyone on them. An old lady riding in her carriage died in the riot, and the merchants they stripped went bankrupt. And that was just over the hanging of a wretched thief who once served in the navy. I shudder to imagine what would happen if Wellington’s victory is desecrated by idle tongues. I wish I could lay my hands on the scoundrel who started these rumors about Whitnell’s journals.”

  “You are saying his journals expose Wellington as an incompetent officer?”

  Dismouth shrugged. “I am not saying anything except that Whitnell worked closely with the general and was in possession of almost as much power as his superior officer. I believe you have heard of Whitnell’s reputation. Is that the kind of man who could successfully lead troops into battle?”

  Gavin had seen enough of war to know that was precisely the kind of man to lead men into battle. Dismouth’s story had enough holes to shoot a squirrel through, but in his experience, government officials never told the whole truth when a half would suffice. In any case the tale held no interest to him, other than the mention of the journals.

  “Why doesn’t someone just burn Whitnell’s journals?” Gavin asked without interest.

  “Interesting you should ask that.” The earl sat back in his chair. “Whitnell’s daughter worked as a companion to a lady whose house burned to the ground one night.”

  “The daughter had the journals?”

  “We don’t know. She may have read them and stored them for safekeeping.”

  Gavin rose from his seat as if bored with the whole thing. “Then, perhaps you ought to join forces with Lieutenant Reardon over there. He seems to think finding the daughter is of some importance. But penniless companions are of little interest to me.”

  “Then, I wouldn’t continue seeing Miss Reynolds if I were you,” the earl answered snidely, returning to his newspaper. “That is the alias Miss Whitnell currently uses.”

  Gavin contemplated grabbing the man’s cravat and pounding his smug face against the nearest wall. On second thought, he wandered into the outer room and waited for Lieutenant Reardon to extricate himself from the shouting rabble. Now that he wore the disguise of British nobleman and haunted their vaunted halls, he may as well put his new persona to use.

  * * * *

  Dillian adjusted her dull brown bonnet to cover the last recalcitrant curl, and refused to look at her reflection in the hall mirror. She knew she looked like a brown sparrow. She didn’t need the mirror reminding her.

  “I wish you wouldn’t go, Dillian,” Blanche said worriedly. “I would rather you waited for Michael or the marquess. They may have found out something you should know first.”

  “What could they possibly find out?” Dillian asked scornfully. “That Winfrey won’t release books that belong to me? I already know that. That Neville is too determined to have his own way to help us? Unless the marquess has untold sums hidden away somewhere with which to hire barristers to sue your solicitor, I cannot fathom what they can do.”

  “Appealing to your father’s men will accomplish little more,” Blanche pleaded. “You know few have funds enough for themselves. What can they do?”

  “I don’t expect them to supply funds. I only wish to see if they know anything of the contents of the journals. I still cannot believe there is anything of value to anyone in them after all these years. It should be perfectly harmless going down to the War Office and asking for the direction of my father’s friends.”

  “If you are the one those men meant to kidnap, then I see nothing harmless about your walking the streets alone!” Blanche glared at her cousin. “At least wait until Michael returns so he can go with you.”

  “You set far too great a store in a man who disappears without a word for days at a time. I do not have such confidence in him.”

  “Then, take Verity with you,” Blanche protested as Dillian resolutely headed for the stairs. “You cannot go about the city alone.”

  “Balderdash,” Dillian replied succinctly. “My reputation will scarcely be salvaged by the accompaniment of your country mouse. Besides, I go as Miss Whitnell. I was raised by those soldiers I go to see. You are the one with a reputation at risk. Keep Verity close.”

  She sailed down the stairs in one of her old round gowns, every bit the country mouse she called Verity. The footman’s eyes widened in surprise as he opened the door for her, but Mellon’s servants were well trained. He made no comment upon the lady of the house going out into the world as a veritable dowd. Of course, he didn’t realize the true lady of the house was the maid disguised in scarves above stairs.

  Dillian disliked leaving Blanche alone and vulnerable should Neville return, but she could not bear sitting idle another minute. In her experience other people never applied themselves to her problems as thoroughly as she did. And if the villains were actually after her and not Blanche, it was better that she use herself as decoy to keep them as far away from Blanche as she could.

  She found a hackney waiting on the next corner. Peering up at the slovenly driver, she asked if the carriage was taken. She didn’t like the driver’s bleary eyes as he glared down at her, but she had little choice at this hour. They’d left Blanche’s carriage back at the village.

  When he nodded and took up the reins, she entered the narrow confines of the interior, cursing the low quality of help these days. Or perhaps he thought her so lacking in coin as to be not worth the effort of helping her inside.

  When they turned right instead of left at the next street corner, Dillian thought perhaps she should knock and remind the driver of the address. But she had not gone to the War Office in years. Perhaps the streets had changed or the driver knew some better route.

  But when he turned right again, she knew they were headed in a circle, and she pounded the driver’s door with her gloved fist.

  He ignored her as they maneuvered around a coach and four holding up traffic so its occupants could descend with their myriad packages. Dillian was tempted to open the carriage door and leap out, but she feared falling beneath the feet of the other horses, or those of the gentlemen riding behind them. She waited until they passed the obstruction, then pounded again.

  The driver pulled into a narrow alley and stopped.

  Fuming, Dillian threw open the door and prepared to depart, hanging onto her reticule without any intention of paying the madman a shilling. Before she could put one foot on the step, an elegant figure in beaver hat and tails gently shoved her back inside and climbed in after her.

  He beat upon the driver’s door with the head of his walking stick, and the carriage started up again.

  Enraged more than frightened, Dillian turned to let the intruder have a piece of her mind, until her gaze encountered laughing green eyes and a familiar, if irritating, grin.

  “Well, Miss Whitnell, it seems you are incapable of even the most basic common sense. I could have been the duke or Dismouth or any number of ill-wishers. Do you have no sense of self-preservation at all?”

  Fury diminishing to cool anger, Dillian opened her reticule and produced the small pistol her father had designed for her. Aiming it directly at O’Toole’s black heart, she answered, “More than you do, it seems, Mister Lawrence. Shall you order the driver to continue my way, or shall I?”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “Very good!” Michael admired the pretty pistol in Dillian’s hands. “You and Gavin are two of a kind, after all. Personally, I have little use for weapons, but I understand their necessity.”

  Michael shifted his position, removed his tall hat, and straightened his coat. An instant later Dillian discovered she held nothing but thin air.

  While she gaped at the place where her pistol should be, Michael continued as if nothing unusual had occurred. “Of course, Gavin swears he has given up heroics for investments, but we both know better than that, don’t we?”

  Dillian glared at him. “Speak for yourself. I h
ave found very little heroic about his attitude.”

  Michael lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “Spoken like a woman scorned. I had thought the interest more on Gavin’s side than yours. You do not seem one of those soft women who swoon about romantical fantasies.”

  Dillian sat back in her seat and refused to look at him. She wanted her pistol back, but she wouldn’t let him know that, either. “I am in no way romantical, and I despise military men, so I can assure you I have no interest in your brother. I spoke only my honest opinion. The marquess is too self-centered and arrogant for heroics.”

  Michael toyed with his beaver hat for a while before replying. “You despise military men? I thought you practically raised by soldiers.”

  Dillian clutched her nearly empty reticule. “That is precisely what I mean. They are not family men. They are fine fighting companions, but they are not...” She stopped, realizing she would reveal entirely too much if she continued.

  But Michael had no difficulty following the path of her thoughts. “Of course, they are not the type of men you wish to become romantical over. You would prefer a man who looks after his home and family rather than one who goes marching off to war.”

  “Exactly.” Said that way, she couldn’t deny it, although she had no intention of becoming romantical over anyone.

  Michael smiled and propped his feet against a ridge in the opposite wall. “You describe Gavin perfectly. All his life he’s attempted to put a roof over my head and keep me under it. He doesn’t realize the failure is mine and not his. Now that he owns his tottering castle, he invests every moment of his time in holding onto it so we’ll both have a home to call our own. Given my nature and the state of the castle, I’d definitely call that heroic.”

  “I suppose marrying an heiress to keep his castle is also heroic?” Dillian asked with a bite of sarcasm.

  Michael began whistling as he glanced out the window to check their location. Satisfied, he returned to the conversation with a smile. “That was my idea. Not very good at romance, am I?”

  “Romance is vastly overrated,” Dillian answered coldly. “I suppose someone like Blanche can look forward to it. She deserves someone to love and who loves her in return. Since she can have her choice of men, she has more opportunities than the general population.”

  The smile disappeared from Michael’s eyes. “You’re quite correct in that instance. But does that mean the rest of us must settle for practicality instead of love?”

  Dillian gave him a sharp look. “What difference does any of this make? Where are we going?”

  Michael leaned lazily against the squabs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I thought perhaps if we circled the city for a few days, I might keep you out of trouble until Gavin has time to solve all our little mysteries. It would give him an opportunity to woo our lady also, but I see now that isn’t likely. He’ll no doubt come after me with his sword if I don’t return you promptly.”

  Only because he doesn’t like sharing his possessions, Dillian thought spitefully, but she had sense enough to hold her tongue on that one. “I’m certain that would be the heroic thing to do,” she answered instead.

  Michael gave her a look of curiosity. “I suppose I can understand why you’re fighting what you feel for him. I just didn’t think you mercenary enough to consider wealth more important than character.”

  “O’Toole, will you please just have the carriage halt and put me down somewhere? Anywhere. I see no reason to continue this nonsensical conversation.”

  He whistled to himself. “That bad, is it? And I wager Gavin hasn’t got a clue.” He remained silent a moment longer, as if monitoring some internal debate. Finally coming to some conclusion, he slapped his hat back on his head and handed back the pistol. “He hasn’t told you about the scars, has he?”

  Dillian accepted the pistol, sliding it into her reticule without interest as she regarded Michael’s expression. “He has. What difference does it make?”

  Michael whistled in surprise. “I didn’t think he had it in him.” He turned and studied Dillian a little more closely. “You’re not his usual sort at all. I haven’t decided if that’s for the better or worse.”

  He sat at an angle so he could observe her better. “I don’t suppose he told you the full tale? Gavin’s not one to brag about his exploits.”

  “I scarcely think seducing another man’s betrothed is anything to brag about,” she said tartly.

  Michael shook his head. “Now, that’s a lie. He’s up to his old tactics, scaring you off, he is. You don’t scare easily though, do you?”

  Considering that a fool question, Dillian didn’t reply.

  Michael nodded as if she had. “Good. Gavin’s as hard-headed as they come. He delights in terrifying innocent misses. Justifies his laziness in staying locked up. If he didn’t put you off with that tale, nothing will. He got those scars for more heroics.”

  Dillian’s head jerked up from her contemplation of her gloved fingers. “Heroics? It happened in the war, then?”

  Michael shook his head and tut-tutted. “Gavin only joined the navy because we were living on the coast then, and the British had the arrogance to think they could blockade us into starvation. Then they took to firing on civilians, and Gavin took strong objection. Don’t get me wrong, he enjoyed besting the devils, but his main thought was protecting our home at the time. He thoroughly disliked the navy, but he did what he thought necessary to protect what was his.”

  That made sense. Not only did the marquess possess a finely honed instinct for protecting what was his, but he apparently lacked any innate ability for killing. She remembered Gavin swinging his sword at the men who would have endangered the Grange. He hadn’t killed them, no more than he had hurt the highwayman who attacked them or the trespasser he’d caught.

  Gavin had the soul of a peacekeeper, not a fighting man. He wouldn’t go off to war for the glory of it. That knowledge eased her somehow, but it didn’t change matters any. She didn’t say anything.

  She didn’t need to. O’Toole had evidently made up his mind to spill it all before he thought better of it.

  “Gavin was a handsome fellow back then. He had the ladies standing in line, but once he made his choice, the others ceased to exist as far as he was concerned. She came from a wealthy family. The parents didn’t approve, but the lady was determined. She swore she’d wait for Gavin until he returned from war.”

  Dillian didn’t want to hear this. She stared out the carriage window. They did seem to be circling the city.

  “When Gavin returned home, he found his beloved betrothed to a wealthy older man. He didn’t confront her, didn’t let her know he’d returned. He merely set about finding out as much about the man as he could. What he discovered wasn’t very pleasant. He took the evidence back to the lady’s father, thinking even if the lady no longer loved him, she should be protected from her own foolishness. Her father had Gavin thrown from the house.”

  Dillian could see it easily. America was no doubt little different from England. From things Gavin had said, she knew he’d grown up poor, that his family—despite their claim to aristocracy—were little better than charlatans living off the labors of others. Families preferred lineage and wealth to good looks, high hopes, and good intentions.

  “Gavin finally sought the lady. Apparently, she thought him satisfied with her bed without the honor of his name. She didn’t believe his warnings. He should have left it at that.”

  The note of bitterness in Michael’s voice was unusual, and Dillian cast him a quick glance. His expression revealed little. Michael’s features generally mirrored his mood.

  “But, no,” he continued, “Gavin had to be heroic. Instead of bedding the lady at her invitation, he sought to protect her by exposing the truth about her suitor and challenging him to a duel. The man chose rapiers, a nicety Gavin never learned with our rambling upbringing. Swords, he understood. Not rapiers. He went out anyway.”

  “The man savaged him,” Dillian said
quietly.

  “Tried to cut his initials into Gavin’s face, to be exact. Their seconds eventually put a halt to it. That wasn’t enough for Gavin. Wearing an example of the bas—” He cut himself off and substituted “bully’s.” Dillian realized then that Michael never used the curse words so common to others. “. . . of the bully’s cruelty,” Michael continued. “Gavin insisted on appearing before his lady friend bearing the bloody scars as proof of the man’s character. It seemed the wealthy widower she meant to marry had lost several wives in the past, not necessarily to natural causes.”

  Dillian hid a gasp and shudder. She knew the rest of this story. She could feel Gavin’s anguish when he held his heart in his hands in a desperate effort to keep the woman he loved from harm, only to have his heart thrown back at him with hysterical shrieks of horror.

  A tear trickled down her cheeks at the thought of a man so tenderhearted, so courageous, even after all he’d gone through. This story rung much more true than the one he’d given her. She recognized that now. His beloved’s shrieks of disgust at his ruined face would have destroyed what remained of Gavin’s pride.

  “You don’t have to tell me the rest,” she said quietly. “How soon after that did you leave for England?”

  “We couldn’t earn the fare immediately on Gavin’s earnings. We had to wait until some of his investments made returns. We left town and started wandering again after that little episode. It wasn’t easy for Gavin making a living with a face like that. He worked on ships mostly. He could have caught one to England anytime, but he wouldn’t go without me, and he wanted a little extra so we didn’t arrive completely penniless. Gavin’s a bit of a fool sometimes.”

  “Yes, I suppose he is. I’ve always considered the heroes of legends quite foolish. Just think of Lancelot, Tristan, Hamlet, any of them. They died for naught. Even had they lived and triumphed, their ladies would no doubt have turned into fat, overbearing harpies in time. Heroism simply isn’t worth the effort,” Dillian stated flatly, sitting stiff and straight against the seat. “If you really intend for us to circle the city forever, I would like some nuncheon soon.”