The Marquess

by Patricia Rice

  “I have decided there is more money to be made by an occasional public appearance,” he drawled. “I have heard no end of interesting investment possibilities these past days in the clubs. I mean to look into several of them.”

  Dillian darted him a quick look of curiosity. “You have money to invest?” She immediately regretted the crassness of the question and cursed her wayward tongue.

  He merely looked down at her with that half-mocking grin teasing the corner of his mouth. “Did you think I spent it all on wine, women, and cards?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and sent him a disgruntled glance. “If you had any to spend, it went on food and cooks and fuel to heat that monstrosity in the winter. It certainly didn’t go into planting your fields, which would have been the most sensible investment.”

  “The fields aren’t mine to plant,” he answered quietly. Then knocking on the carriage roof, he ordered the driver to stop.

  Dillian didn’t have time to question before the earl’s footman lowered the steps and opened the door.

  She wondered what Gavin had ever done for the Earl of Mellon to allow him so much freedom with his personal servants and equipment, but she refused to ask. She had some recollection of a mention of his cousin Marian marrying into the family. Nobility had too many connections to ever sort successfully.

  “We’re near Bond Street,” she whispered in puzzlement as she took his arm a moment later. “Whatever are we doing here?”

  “Walking together in public. I believe that is Lady Castlereagh over there.” He tipped his hat brim with his walking stick and nodded to the viscountess across the street.

  Dillian gripped his arm tighter, forced a smile to her face, and greeted one of Blanche’s suitors as he passed by. The man nearly tripped over his own boots as he recognized Blanche’s once dowdy companion. His admiring greeting met Gavin’s scowl, and he hurried on his way.

  Dillian wanted to feel delight at walking fashionable streets on the arm of a handsome marquess who offered such jealous protection. She should be floating on air. Once upon a time she had dreamed silly dreams of wearing elegant gowns, twirling parasols, and chatting gaily with handsome men.

  She had been a silly young girl then. She didn’t have such foolish notions now. The Marquess of Effingham did not stroll the streets of London for the sheer pleasure of it, and he did not scowl for jealousy. He simply didn’t wish his plans interrupted.

  “Could you please explain exactly what it is we’re doing so I might act the part?”

  “You are acting the part quite well. You might wish to look upon me with doting admiration,” he added after a moment’s consideration. “But I will not ask too much of you.”

  Dillian could tell when he laughed at her, and she pinched his arm through the layers of coat and shirt. Gavin didn’t flinch, but he did turn a mirth-filled look at her. The blatant admiration in his gaze nearly reduced her to breathlessness again.

  Why in the name of all that was good was he doing this to her? Hadn’t she made it plain enough that she had no desire to act as his mistress now that this charade had ended? The journals were lost. They would never know now who might want them. He could do nothing further for her. She and Blanche must hide until they had funds to buy their safety.

  Gavin had promised that the person they met today would aid them. He needn’t be so confounded mysterious about it. And he needn’t look at her as if he would devour her like one of his cook’s meat pasties.

  To her alarm, a familiar figure wended his way through the crowd ahead. She tugged urgently on Gavin’s arm. “We must leave,” she demanded, attempting to steer him into the nearest haberdashery.

  “Nonsense. Here comes the man I want to see.” Gavin remained firmly in place, ignoring her cries of protest.

  Damn the man! After seeing them together yesterday, she should never have trusted him again.

  Dillian considered dropping his arm and running, but it was too late. Her father’s most promising recruit and closest confidante had already seen her. Lieutenant James Reardon was about to expose Miss Dillian Reynolds, companion to Lady Blanche, as the daughter of Colonel Slippery Whitnell for all of London society to see.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  “Dillian! Thank God. I’ve hunted all of England for you.” With a pronounced limp, Lieutenant Reardon hurried through the crowd and grabbed Dillian’s hands. All around, people stopped, stared, and blatantly eavesdropped as the young couple met under the black glare of the terrifying marquess. Effingham’s malevolently scarred features and threatening scowl had onlookers holding their breaths with fear and anticipation.

  “Reardon,” Dillian responded stiffly. “Have you met Effingham yet?”

  To the astonishment of all, the marquess held out his hand and shook the young lieutenant’s proffered one. Deciding they wouldn’t see a soldier beheaded immediately, several members of their audience drifted off.

  “We’re acquainted,” Gavin informed her. “He’s the gentleman I wished you to meet.”

  Dillian gave him a hostile glare. “You might have told me so I didn’t succumb to failure of the heart.”

  Gavin raised a quizzical brow, making his visage all the more sinister. “I hadn’t realized your heart was involved.”

  She smacked his shin sharply with her folded parasol. “That’s not what I meant.” Reluctantly, she turned to Reardon. “I had no idea you looked for me. Why ever should you do so?”

  “I promised your father to look after you, but I’ve been confined on the Continent until recently. I’d thought some of our other acquaintances had seen you by now, but when I returned here, no one knew anything of you. I’ve been frantic with worry.”

  Reardon still held her hand. “My neglect is unforgivable. I can understand if you will no longer speak to me.”

  Dillian jerked her hand back. “Don’t be ridiculous. I am perfectly fine. I’m quite capable of looking after myself. Goodness knows, I’ve done it most of my life. Don’t enact a Cheltenham tragedy for my benefit.”

  She sent the marquess a questioning look. His scowl had disappeared, but he still studied them cautiously. She thought she should give his shin another whack, but she generously refrained. “What is this about, my lord? Why do you wish us to meet?”

  Seeing something he didn’t like in the marquess’s manner, Reardon demanded, “Yes, what precisely did you have in mind? If you’ve harmed one hair of this lady’s head—”

  “Cut line, Reardon,” Gavin murmured without inflection, his gaze still on Dillian. “The lady is capable of making her own decisions. Shall we repair to somewhere a little less public now?”

  “We could have met somewhere a little less public,” Dillian hissed as they wandered a few streets to the park.

  “Not for my purposes,” Gavin informed her as he found a bench. “All this secrecy is damning. You English are too blamed closemouthed. It’s time we strip this nonsense to the bones for everyone to see and put an end to it.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Dillian answered huffily. “I see nothing nonsensical about trying to protect myself and Blanche.”

  “Anglesey knows you’re Whitnell’s daughter,” Gavin said coldly. “You are not protecting Blanche from anything by continuing this charade.” He turned to Reardon. “Now, tell her why you’re looking for her and why you’re working for Anglesey.”

  On the opposite side of Dillian, Reardon looked puzzled but obliged. “Your father told me he left your inheritance in the papers I sent back to you. I thought you sufficiently provided for so I did not worry as I should have. When I returned six months or more ago and could find no trace of you, I became increasingly concerned.

  “I knew those papers contained some defamatory material. The colonel had a habit of working out his angers by jotting down notes disparaging his superiors, delineating their incompetence in rather deadly accuracy.”

  He shrugged apologetically. “You know as well as I, Dillian, your father had as much pleasure from
stirring trouble as from drinking ale. He never subscribed to the officer’s creed of ‘taking care of their own.’ He looked at things from an enlisted man’s perspective, and he always found fault with the aristocrats around him, despite the fact that he was one of them. He made a lot of enemies.”

  Dillian played with the ivory handle of her parasol. “I’m aware of that. But he was quite frequently right. That earned him more enemies than anything else.” She sent him a scathing look. “The dukes of Anglesey have not exactly been his friends.”

  Reardon adopted a stubborn look. “As an officer, I’m required to obey orders from my government. If I’m told to report to the Duke of Anglesey, I do. The man is distraught over the disappearance of his cousin. I can see nothing wrong in looking for her. You are following in your father’s footsteps if you hide her ladyship.”

  “Balderdash. You are feathering your nest at the expense of a lady,” Dillian answered scornfully. “Neville wishes to force Blanche into marriage. He may have also given someone the idea he wished the lady dead. He is the only one who benefits from her death or that tragic fire.”

  “Devil take it!” Reardon roared. “You cannot accuse the man—”

  “That’s enough, children,” Gavin intruded. “You will attract an audience again.”

  He removed the parasol from Dillian’s grip before she could strip the handle from it. The childish argument had relieved his concerns. Dillian treated the handsome lieutenant as a nuisance of an older brother, not as a long-lost lover. “You are perfectly aware that you and the journals, not the Lady Blanche, could have been the target of that fire. Reardon will help us discover the truth.”

  Dillian appeared only moderately pacified. “My father has been dead for years, and no one has made an attempt on my life before. But in the last six months, someone has shot at Blanche as she rode through the woods, damaged the axle of her carriage so it overturned on a particularly perilous road, and set fire to her home. I cannot see these ‘accidents’ as coincidences.”

  Reardon looked alarmed, but Gavin merely asked, “I assume you were with her at those times?”

  Dillian’s eyes grew wide as she took his meaning. “Surely, someone wouldn’t risk harming Blanche to get at me?”

  Gavin waited for her to reach the inevitable conclusion on her own. Reardon appeared properly horrified, but a shake of the head kept the lieutenant from speaking. Dillian’s fingers clasped and unclasped in her lap as she allowed this to sink in.

  Finally, she gave Gavin a pleading look. “I will have to leave her, won’t I? Just for the sake of safety.”

  Reardon couldn’t contain himself any longer. “I thought you said they wanted the journals, not Dillian! By the devil, if anyone—”

  Gavin waved off his protest. “That could very well be, in which case, they think themselves safe now that the solicitor’s office has very conveniently burned to the ground. Not a particularly creative thinker,” he commented. “That does not mean they believe Dillian knows nothing of the journal’s contents.”

  Dillian gestured in exasperation. “Shall I make a public announcement of my incompetency as an heiress? Perhaps I can convince the world I cannot read. I daresay Reardon knows more of those journals than I do. They were written almost entirely in code. I can’t imagine what my father thought I would do with them. If he’d left stock or notes or anything of financial value in them I would have noticed.”

  Reardon smacked his forehead. “Code! Of course. He wrote the blamed journals in code. I should have remembered. Gad, hack a man’s leg to pieces and his mind goes with it. Lord, I’m sorry, Dillian. And now it’s all gone. Gad, I’ve made a muck of it.”

  “You made a muck of it when you hired on with Neville,” Dillian answered coldly. “Now I suppose duty requires that you go back to him and announce that I’m definitely Whitnell’s daughter and I have Blanche hidden away for my own nefarious purposes.”

  “Rein that tongue of yours until I’m done,” Gavin warned her. “Reardon will do no such thing. Anglesey still thinks Blanche in the south of France. He’s given the lieutenant orders to follow her there.”

  Dillian looked only moderately appeased. “Have a lovely journey, James. I understand France is quite nice at this time of year. Please take your time and enjoy it.”

  Gavin covered her mouth with his gloved hand and gave the objection in Reardon’s face a look of warning. The younger man remained silent.

  “Reardon intends to return to the duke with confirmation of your identity, yes. It’s pointless continuing the charade. You cannot spend the rest of your life avoiding the men who knew you and your father well.” He released her mouth so she might speak again.

  Dillian sighed. “As the infamous Colonel Whitnell’s daughter, I cannot continue as Blanche’s companion. I’m a danger to her life.” A look of sorrow crossed her face. “I would not see her reputation harmed, Gavin. Is there not anything we can do to prevent that?”

  Her pensive expression tugged on his heartstrings. He had just handed her orders that meant she would no longer have a home and family or means of supporting herself, and she worried about her cousin instead of her own fate.

  He wanted to tell her she would never have anything to worry about, that he would take care of everything, but he knew the selfishness of that thought. She needed choices, not ultimatums.

  Reardon came to the rescue. “Colonel Whitnell’s daughter ought to possess the highest reputation known to society, as high as Wellington’s. No shame should connect to Lady Blanche for keeping your company. Don’t worry, Dillian, your father has friends. We’ll see to it that your father’s reputation is restored so you may hold your head up wherever you go.”

  Dillian patted his hand and gave him a stilted smile. “You are very good, James, but we both know my father was a notorious gambler, a troublemaker par none, and a devil-may-care rakehell. Even should you somehow clear these ridiculous rumors about his loyalty, you cannot deny what he was.”

  ‘When we are through with him, your father will appear a saint next to the real culprit,” Reardon assured her.

  Dillian looked at him with puzzlement, then turned to Gavin for explanation. He liked the notion that she believed him responsible for this turn of events.

  “Your father didn’t keep his theories quiet. His friends knew his opinions on every subject. They are putting together a list of everything they remember. Your father often complained of high-level incompetence, but in latter days, he believed the guns and cannon shipped to Wellington’s troops were of a quality inferior to those ordered, that delays in shipping were not entirely accidental, and that similar events came from someone well paid to harm the cause.”

  “Treason,” Dillian whispered. “That’s not possible. Why wouldn’t he have immediately reported it to his superiors?”

  “Because his superiors could very well have been involved,” Reardon said.

  Gavin added, “And because there is some likelihood someone he knew well was part of it. Why else would he be suspicious when no one else was?”

  “Surely, not Blanche’s father?” she whispered.

  Gavin shook his head, but Reardon answered. “Whitnell and Perceval were the best of friends. They wouldn’t have remained so in that case. Since your father had no immediate family other than your mother’s, and your mother’s family was related to Perceval’s, then the person he suspected could be familiar to both of them.”

  Dillian shook her head blankly. “My mother’s family disowned her. They never moved in government circles in any case. Her parents died quite some time ago. Her only living family was Blanche’s mother—” She looked up and turned from one to the other. “That leads us back to Blanche’s father.”

  “And to his family,” Gavin reminded her gently.

  “Neville?”

  Again, Reardon answered. “Neville’s father. Neville was still at Oxford at the time.”

  “Oh, my word.” Disbelief turned to horror. “Both my father and Bla
nche’s died at Waterloo. Do you think...” She shook her head in shock. “Neville’s father inherited the marquessate with the death of Blanche’s father. He would have inherited the dukedom if he hadn’t caught the smallpox.”

  Gavin didn’t hide the grimness of his tone. “If that’s the case, then justice was certainly served by fate. But I wouldn’t blame the man for Waterloo or fratricide, just greed. Neville’s father was in a position to deal with military contracts.”

  “Along with the Earl of Dismouth, Anglesey’s best friend,” Reardon supplied, in case Dillian had forgotten.

  “Neville’s godfather,” Dillian corrected. “Neville relied on his father’s old friend for advice when his father and grandfather both died and he inherited a dukedom. I never liked the man, but then, I never liked Neville.”

  “You never liked the power he had over Lady Blanche,” Gavin corrected. “You’re a hard woman, Dillian Whitnell, but we’ll forgive you. In the meantime, you’re about to run off to France to meet your cousin.”

  “I’m what?” Dillian asked with incredulity.

  “About to run off to France,” Gavin repeated in a voice of firm determination. “You may take Blanche with you in whatever disguise you prefer. You are leaving the country immediately.”

  Before Dillian could say “Balderdash,” Reardon joined Gavin’s commands. “I’m announcing that I have the last of your father’s journals. You know nothing of them.”

  Dillian looked from Reardon to Gavin. “Has it ever occurred to you to wonder,” she asked, “why no one has looked for those journals or endangered Blanche’s life until six months ago—when James returned from the Continent?”

  Without any further warning than that, she stood up and walked away, losing herself rapidly in the crowded boulevard ahead.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Sitting cross-legged on the meager cot he had taken in the servants’ attic, Michael narrowed his eyes over the pages spread before him and dipped his pen in ink. Sheets of expensive vellum from the desks on the lower floors lay in a blizzard of white across the covers and on the floors, all covered with the same nearly indecipherable penmanship.