Ignoring the chaos he’d created, Michael continued scratching frantically across the sheet he worked on.
He glanced up only at a hesitant knock on his door. Looking around at the maelstrom of papers, he leaped up and opened the door just a fraction.
His eyes widened at the sight of the delicate lady of the house in these attic rooms. Hastily, he stepped through the doorway and guided her toward the stairs.
“You have no business up here, my lady,” he said bluntly. “If you wish to speak with me, you could have sent someone to fetch me.”
“That’s not any more proper,” Blanche objected. “Dillian isn’t here. I can’t go sending for young male guests while unchaperoned.”
Gavin would appreciate the idiocy of that speech, Michael reflected, but he didn’t voice his opinion aloud. Bowing, he took the closed stairs first, as was proper in case the lady’s foot slipped. When he reached the carpeted corridor below, he held out his arm to help Blanche on the last few enclosed steps. “Now we are on common ground. What may I do for you?”
“Dillian hasn’t returned from her walk with Lord Effingham. Do you know if he meant to keep her away this long?”
Michael rather calculated if Gavin could persuade the lady to a room with a bed, they might not see the pair for a week, but he supposed he ought not mention that aloud.
“If she’s with Gavin, she’s quite safe. You, on the other hand, are an open invitation for evildoers. Take yourself down to the library, set husky footmen at every door, and I shall be down shortly with a task to keep your mind occupied until she returns.”
Her blazing smile of delight eased his discomfort at sharing his usually clandestine activities. He had little practice at sharing and much at keeping secrets. Perhaps it was time he learned to share.
* * * *
“You’ve talked to the little witch? What did she say? Will she tell you where she’s hidden Lady Blanche?” Neville stood behind his desk, for all intents and purposes a calm man in perfect control of his destiny. Only a man who knew him well might detect the note of anxiety behind his question.
“She seems quite determined to have her father’s papers, Your Grace,” Reardon replied respectfully, ignoring the older man in the corner chair. “She seems to believe they contain her inheritance, and she blames you if they’re lost. She may have some grounds for complaint, sir. I carried the last journal in my kit and idled my convalescence by translating it. With the aid of the other journals, I might determine the names of the personages of whom he writes. From what I can tell, those people would pay well to keep their secrets.”
“Blackmail? The fellow engaged in blackmail? Devil take it, you are saying my cousin kept company with the daughter of such a rotter all these years? I will not have it! Hand over what you have, Reardon, and I’ll have the authorities after her at once.” The duke appeared moved to near apoplexy.
“Pardon, Your Grace, but the lady is entitled to her inheritance, no matter what it contains. She may be completely innocent. So might her father. I never saw that either of them lived particularly well. Whitnell and Lady Blanche’s father were close associates. The connection might be quite innocent. I have promised to hold the journal for the lady until she decides what to do with it.”
“Under the circumstances, Reardon, that may not be entirely wise,” a soft voice spoke from the corner. “You have heard what happened to the last two places where the journals resided? Perhaps you should commend them to safer hands.”
Reardon turned to the speaker. “I do not wish to disagree with you, Lord Dismouth, but the lady thought she had placed the other journals in safe hands. Perhaps I will do a little better job of it.”
Dismouth nodded in acknowledgment, and a few minutes later, Reardon was dismissed, unaware that his departure was watched from a window several floors below.
* * * *
When Gavin knocked at the door of the Perceval town house later that day and Michael answered looking visibly distracted and covered with ink, Gavin grabbed his coat lapels, shoved him inside, and slammed the door after him.
“You have those blasted journals, don’t you? I swear, I’ll find a rope and hang you this time, Michael. If I can’t find a damned tree limb high enough, I’ll dangle you from the chimneys.”
A vision in gauzy white drifted from the library, her golden hair straggling from her coiffure like moonbeams on her shoulders..Gavin noticed her hands were as ink-splattered as Michael’s, but her words caught him more forcibly than her looks.
“Where is Dillian, my lord? It is most urgent that we speak with her.”
“She didn’t come back here?” Gavin shouted, dropping Michael instantly and running for the stairs. “Are you certain she didn’t come back to hare off on her own? I counted on you holding her until I arrived.”
He practically flew up the stairs, long cloak flying behind him. Michael and Blanche took the stairs right behind him.
By the time they reached Dillian’s room, Gavin had already stalked through it. Except that the maids had made the bed, it looked little different than the night before. The trunk still waited, partially packed, for its owner’s return.
Gavin groaned and drove his hand through his hair as he stared bleakly at his brother. “Where is she?”
Looking thoughtful, Michael tapped his pen’s quill to his lips. “Several possibilities arise….”
He glanced around at expectant faces, shrugged, and led the way back to the corridor. “I suppose a council of war is called for. Could we at least have tea before I famish?”
* * * *
Dillian glared at the locked coach door as the coach ambled through the last remaining hours of daylight. She hadn’t much liked thinking herself such an incompetent ninnyhammer that any pusillanimous henwit could come along and shove her inside a coach and abduct her. She didn’t like thinking it, but it seemed to have happened.
If the brigands didn’t stop for food soon, she thought she might starve to death. However, she would have a thing or two to say to the men who dared treat her this way, before starving.
She had tried pounding at the windows and yelling while they passed through busy London streets, but the clatter of wagon wheels, the shouts of street hawkers, and the noise of her own coach and driver drowned out any feeble effort she made.
Now they traveled along country roads, and she saw no one. If they would just slow down long enough to pass a farm wagon or something, she might break open the window to attract someone’s attention, but they passed no one at this time of evening. All the farmers had sensibly returned home to their nice, warm dinners.
Grinding her teeth in frustration, Dillian clasped her fists firmly around her frothy reticule. She felt a fool in all this filmy lavender and lace, but she not only had her reticule, she’d hung on to her parasol. Her father’s men had taught her to use whatever weapons came to hand. She need only wait until her enemy appeared.
As dusk drew on, they reached a village with a coaching inn, and her eyes lit with anticipation. Some of the joy died out of them a few minutes later when the driver jumped down and entered the inn alone. She scanned the empty yard looking for any sign of aid, finding none other than the saddled horse at the trough. If only she could reach the horse—
The driver reappeared carrying a bowl and a mug. Triumphantly, Dillian watched him crossing the darkening yard in her direction. Men were such fools, she thought pityingly. Just because she wore ruffles and lace, this poor idiot thought her so helpless that he dared approach her with his hands full.
Pulling the pistol from her reticule and holding her parasol aloft, she prepared to put an end to that spectacularly silly notion.
* * * *
“You haven’t slept all night,” Blanche protested as she watched the marquess don a fresh cravat borrowed from Michael’s wardrobe. “You cannot go out there like that. You haven’t even shaved,” she added daringly.
“You could add his eyes are bloodshot, he looks gray as death, and a
bit of a shade hung over,” Michael added helpfully as he handed his splendid glossy hat to the marquess standing in front of the hall mirror.
“Thanks to you,” Gavin growled. “You kept handing me that damned flask. She’s not anywhere you expected, damn it! What do you think I ought to do? Go to bed and sleep on it?”
No one dared mention the obvious fact that Dillian had no actual connection to the marquess to demand that he do anything at all. Gavin owed her nothing. For all anyone knew, she’d gone tearing off on her own.
They’d already sent messengers riding off to Hampshire and Hertfordshire, just in case. Effingham had done more than any one man could be expected to do for a female of small acquaintance.
“You can’t appear in the House of Lords like that, sir,” Blanche said firmly. “You look like the Grim Reaper. They will run screaming in terror.”
He smiled even more malevolently. Gavin adjusted the hat on his head and drew his cloak around his rumpled coat.
“Be glad I do not wear the hood, my lady,” he informed her. Before they could throw any more obstacles in his way, Gavin grasped his walking stick, picked up the heavy satchel, and strode out, cloak billowing around him.
Michael sighed and grimaced. “I believe Gavin has just donned his hero hat, my lady. There is no reasoning with him once he does that. We can only hope to divert disaster. I will leave you with Cousin Marian while I find a safe depository for those papers. Get some sleep while you can. One of us will need it.”
He didn’t wait for her protests but strode off to the library in a manner very similar to the man who had just left.
* * * *
No one actually ran screaming from the stately halls of Parliament as the American Marquess of Effingham marched through them. A few observers may have looked for the army he appeared to lead, or at least anticipated drums and fifes. Others stepped out of his way, their eyes widening in horror at Effingham’s grim face and burning dark eyes. A low hum of interest grew to a noticeable murmur of alarm.
Uncaring, Gavin strode through enemy territory with only one thought in mind—Dillian. If any of these effete dilettantes had harmed her, he would see them crucified.
No man could touch what was his and live to speak of it. Rage carried him through these alien halls of elegant, whispering aristocrats.
He saw their haughty heads bend together and murmur in tones as he passed. He grimaced at a guard who hurried to keep him out. Producing his card with the same flourish as a sword, Gavin shoved past the man and strode on.
Neville rushed toward him from the far end of the hall, but Gavin ignored his gesticulations. Michael had searched the duke’s premises last night and found no trace of Dillian. The duke could suffer the torments of the damned along with everyone else. Gavin gave no preferential treatment.
He’d already sent word ahead. They expected him. They didn’t know what to expect, he fully realized. He didn’t care about that, either. He’d never had any notion of using his blasted title to stride into the most powerful house in England, walk in front of hundreds of the most respected, wealthiest, powerful men in the world, and fling their damned futures in their faces. But he would. For Dillian.
Gavin strode past formally wigged men in dark robes holding out their hands in greeting. He’d disdained making a spectacle of himself in the past, protected the innocent from his fearsome visage, but he protected no one now but Dillian. The American navy captain he once had been had arrived in his enemies’ hallowed halls.
Arriving at last at the podium facing a chamber filling with robed aristocrats, Gavin slammed his satchel down in front of all the expectant, horrified faces, and threw off his hat so they could see him clearly.
“I will trade all your dirty secrets, gentlemen,” he announced in a voice that rang through the halls outside, “for the return of Miss Reynolds Whitnell. I don’t give a good damn which of you sold out your country for the devil’s coin. I want Colonel Whitnell’s daughter returned—whole and unharmed—within the next twelve hours, or I shall have these journals published in every bloody newspaper in the land!”
He dumped the satchel’s contents on the table before him, spilling out a dozen black-bound books.
Chapter Thirty-five
The pistol blast spun her abductor backward when the parasol didn’t quite accomplish the task. Dillian regretted the necessity of leaving the villain sprawled in the dust of the coach yard instead of questioning him, but she had no intention of allowing any of the rather large men rushing from the inn a chance to catch her. Fleeing for the saddled horse, she climbed the trough, ripped her lovely skirt, and threw her leg over the saddle. Shouts of pure amazement followed her out of the yard.
She had watched the road signs this time. She knew precisely where she was. She thought it kind of her abductor to go in a familiar direction. Kind, or the mark of treachery.
She wouldn’t think about that. She couldn’t believe Effingham would abduct her, not even for her own good. It had to be coincidence that the coach had taken the road toward Hertfordshire and Arinmede Manor.
* * * *
Gavin appropriated an office in the very center of Parliament’s hallowed halls, in a room in full view of soldiers, guards, and any respected member who lingered outside the chambers. The satchel sat in the center of the desk, quite close to the place where he contemptuously rested his feet.
The first person who dared brave his scowl was a slight man of indeterminate age, bespectacled, and far from forbidding. He barely raised his balding head above the height of Gavin’s shoes.
“I’ve come to say …That is, I regret what has happened to the lady... I had no idea. You see, it’s all my fault, I’m sure. I just did what I thought best, as my father taught me. Now, I’m not so sure It’s just that—”
Gavin impatiently slammed his feet to the floor and leaning over the desk, glared at his stuttering visitor. “Do I know you?”
The visitor gulped. “I apologize, my lord. I’ve been so distraught since the fire. I cannot keep my wits about me. I’m Winfrey, sir. Archibald Winfrey, Lady Blanche’s solicitor.”
“Do you know where I can find Miss Whitnell?” Gavin demanded.
“No, no. Not at all, my lord,” the solicitor continued stuttering, worrying his hat brim between his hands. “That is just it, my lord. The lady cannot have her father’s papers. I beg pardon for saying this, my lord, but neither can you. I had the papers all safe in my office, sir. I never meant to keep the lady from her fortune, if that’s what they are. I simply protected them at the duke’s behest. The lady asked for them, I know, but I did not realize—”
“You did not realize what you held?” Gavin asked menacingly. “For surely you realized you wrongfully kept the lady from what was hers.”
“But, my lord …” the solicitor stuttered, backing away slightly from his fury. “The duke … Her cousin … You see, I thought to help—”
Gavin slammed open the satchel and waved a black book from its interior in the solicitor’s face. “Is this what you came to see, Winfrey? Would you care to look inside and verify its genuineness?”
Winfrey’s eyes widened. “How did you …? It’s not possible. They all burned.” He twisted his cravat as Gavin flung book after book onto the desk in front of him. “They’re not even singed,” he whispered in astonishment.
“Magic.” Gavin smiled grimly. “One wave of my wand, and they’re miraculously restored. If I must sit here much longer, I may resort to reading them. Perhaps you would care to tell a few of your clients that, Mr. Winfrey?”
The man backed out, still stuttering. Gavin nodded at a man stationed directly outside, and a shadow followed the solicitor.
This was going to be a damned long day, Gavin decided, returning his feet to the desk. He preferred action to sitting here like a duck ripe for the plucking.
If he had to sit here much longer, he might just pull out his sword and go after the Duke of Anglesey personally. He wasn’t a particularly patient ma
n, and the idea of Dillian in anyone else’s hands made him helpless with fury. He meant to destroy something before the day ended. It might as well be a duke.
* * * *
A few hours later, Michael and Reardon appeared at the door of the chamber Gavin had appropriated.
During that time, Gavin had entertained viscounts and dukes, the prime minister, and an assortment of other characters satisfying their curiosities or looking for his support in one cause or another.
He wasn’t in much humor to entertain his throwback of a brother and a man who’d left a lady penniless for the better part of two years. He glared at both. Neither man showed a flicker of fear. They merely closed the door behind them.
“Montague has spirited Lady Blanche to safety,” Michael informed him the instant the door closed. “He feared Marian would have the child early if he didn’t do something drastic.”
“Lady Blanche isn’t in any damned danger. Dillian is,” Gavin growled, prowling the floor. “I can’t bear sitting here any longer. I’ll leave the blamed books with you. There has to be some trace of her somewhere, and I mean to find it.”
Reardon stepped in front of him, blocking him into a corner. “Forgive me, my lord, but I have to ask your intentions when you find her. Your public display has made your partiality quite blatant. I will not have the lady’s reputation damaged further by allowing you to go haring off after her.”
Gavin’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He ignored Michael’s warning gesture. He saw only a spoiled English soldier standing in his way. With murder already raging through his veins, he didn’t have patience for politeness. He wrapped both fists in Reardon’s gold-buttoned coat and lifted the heavier man clear of the floor.
“If you have any idea whatsoever,” he spoke slowly and distinctly, so there could be no mistake, “any idea at all where Miss Whitnell can be found, you had best spit it out now or you’ll fly through that window within the next ten seconds.”
The Marquess Page 33