Their gazes locked, and the moment grew long. Elizabeth felt slow heat fill her cheeks—not embarrassment, not anger, but something wholly new, outside her previous experience. It was a kind of self-awareness, she thought, or perhaps it was a shared awareness of one another. This was the look that two tigers surely exchanged upon meeting in the jungle, a wary acknowledgment of the other's existence, a fiery curiosity only just banked by primal caution.
She shook her head once, as though to cast off such fanciful notions, and the moment was broken. Lord Greyleigh blinked, Elizabeth's flush grew deeper, and she felt social order replace uncivilized stares.
"Why are you in my room?" She spoke in a soft, confused tone, less croaky this time.
"Not your room," he answered, his words coolly polite if not cordial. "The room belongs to me. I am Lord Greyleigh. Your . .. home has been destroyed by fire. We are searching for records, but are afraid they are destroyed. Do you know your name?"
What a curious question. And what did he mean, her home had been destroyed by fire? And why that hesitation when he said the word "home"?
"Come, surely you know your own name," he pressed.
"Elizabeth."
"Your surname, girl. I need your surname."
Elizabeth put her head on one side, as much from vexation as from a curious exhaustion, the latter no doubt owing to having been dosed with laudanum, at least to judge from a spreading headache and queasy sensation that had begun to grow in the pit of her belly.
Despite any lingering fuzziness, however, she realized in a flash that she could not tell him her name. If he had no notion of her identity, better that she remain anonymous. But how not to answer his question?
He sighed, a soft sound that was somehow still ripe with meaning—frustration perhaps. But why frustration? That emotion seemed disproportionate to the circumstances.
He reached with a small show of irritation to the queue that was no longer quite securing his hair, and pulled it free. The pale strands of his hair fell to his shoulders. While she had never talked to this man the few times she had seen him in London, she'd had eyes to see that in a well-lit room his hair was palest spun gold. In this dim candlelight, it was a ghostly white, not too dissimilar from his eyes, dark pupils surrounded by a nearly colorless sheen that made her think of a highly polished silver tray.
What a curious fellow this Lord Greyleigh was, as peculiar to meet in person as she had ever thought he must be. Not for the first time, she wondered why he wore his hair long, so un-fashionably. If he had meant the style to be off-putting, he had been correct in that, for it was one of the things about him that had kept Elizabeth from seeking out a mutual acquaintance to introduce them. It was rumored he was mad as a March hare, and his lack of fashion sense certainly did nothing to gainsay the tale. He had no wife to request an improvement in his mode of dress and style. He was rich, and so might be called eccentric, but it was the disparity between his words and his actions that unnerved her and made her think of darker, less kind words to describe this man.
"You have nothing to fear, my girl," he said, almost as if he could read her thoughts. "You have been rescued from the fire. We brought you here to tend to your needs. A surgeon has seen to your heel and your cuts. He tells me the cut to your foot runs very deep, but fortunately does not involve any tendons. Once healed, you should be able to walk normally."
He paused, as if assessing her responses. Whatever he saw, he chose to go on. "What you must understand is this—there is no place for you here, not beyond a day or two it takes to find your people. We must return you to your family. So you must see that I require your surname, and the direction of your people, that I may tell them to come and fetch you home." He spoke slowly, deliberately, as if she were a child.
Again, what a curious choice of words: "There is no place for you here." Had she, in delirium, been asking for employment, for sanctuary?
He rose from the chair, as deliberate in movement as he had been in speech, and she thought perhaps he was at some pains not to startle her. He was tall, taller than most men. That hair, those eyes, that height—he was intimidating despite his cool and level tone.
"Why is there no maid in this room?" she asked, because the lack disturbed her. "Why are we alone together?"
If he had meant to pace, he instead abruptly came to a halt. "I never thought it should prove a difficulty." He scowled. "I am used to sickrooms—to females in sickrooms." His scowl grew deeper, giving him a rather fearsome appearance. "I suppose I should have considered otherwise."
"Indeed."
He stared at her, then gave a very brief, reluctant snort, not a laugh. "My butler was not sure you came from the asylum." He pointed at her. "Your clothes ... your soft hands. Were you newly arrived there?"
She understood everything all at once. Asylum. Fire. The building that had burned had indeed been no inn, but instead an asylum. To judge by the curious questions he asked and the guarded looks he threw her way, it had been an asylum for the impaired and deranged rather than the merely lame or ill. He thought she was one of its inhabitants, that she was so lost to reality or so deluded that she could not even recall her own name.
He had given her a perfect cloak, a perfect way to hide her name from him, from all of Society. That was all she had left, the ability to keep her name out of the news sheets, to keep from tainting her family's hopes for the future any further. All she need do was tell a lie, a very small lie—that she could not recall her surname—and she could keep her sister's dream of happiness alive. She could even tell herself it was a noble lie, used toward a righteous purpose ... no matter that it stuck in her throat and would not be uttered.
He stared at her, as though willing her to speak.
She tried. She shaped her lips to the task, but this lie did not feel so small at all, but more like a sin, a serious sin, to tell a lie to a man who had rescued her from . . . from what?
"Where did you find me? Was I unconscious?" she asked instead.
"In a ditch. Outside the asylum. And, yes, you were unconscious. Someone was trying to steal your ring—the one on your left hand," he said pointedly.
Elizabeth gasped, and she clutched her hands together, her gaze fixed on the ring. It was a signet ring, with a B carved into its flat gold surface. Radford had worn it, until he had given it to her at their supposed wedding ceremony.
"Are you married?" he asked.
"No!" she cried, for it was only the truth. She had thought the ceremony with Radford Barnes was a real one, but knew to her everlasting regret now it had not been real at all. That the marriage had been false was at the very heart of her difficulties.
"Why is the band on your left-hand ring finger then?" He took a step toward her, putting out his palm, silently demanding she place her hand in his.
She held her hands clutched together, meeting his stoic gaze, refusing his silent order. "I wanted to appear as though I were married," she said, because that also was the truth. A married woman had a few protections that an unmarried woman did not, and she had meant to pass herself off as one. She still meant to, after a fashion, for her true intent was to pretend to be a widow.
"Why?" He reached out and took her hand, not forcibly, but with a strength of purpose it would have been churlish, if not impossible, to resist. He examined the ring, and then her face. "Tell me why, Elizabeth B."
"Because," she took a deep breath, then plunged straight into the thickest lie she'd ever told—"because married women get to wear a veil, and a pretty dress, and I could dance and dance and dance at my wedding breakfast. I like to dance. Do you like to dance?" She had made her voice go singsongy, and hoped her expression was at least lax if not downright childish.
For a moment she thought she had gone too far, had performed too poorly. Something flamed in the back of his eyes, and he quickly released her hand, as though in disgust. 'Tell me straight," he said in clipped tones, "do you know your surname or not?"
A tear formed on the lashes of h
er left eye, and although she had not planned it, although it had been a spontaneous reaction to his tone and to her playacting and to the horror of the past four-and-twenty hours, she saw that the little tear instantly took all the fire out of his gaze. The transformation was almost as disconcerting as his appearance.
"Ah well," he said, half reaching for her for a moment, perhaps to cup her chin, but then letting his hand fall idly to his side. "Well then, Miss Elizabeth B., it is no matter if you cannot recall your last name. There are times I wish I could not recall my own. We shall find a way to let your family know of your change in circumstances. Until then, rest easy."
He said no more, turning with an abruptness he had not hitherto shown, and left the room. However, when he closed the door, it was with the gentlest of clicks.
Elizabeth became aware that her bosom rose and fell rapidly, as though she had been running. She took several deep breaths to steady herself, and considered that Lord Greyleigh was a man of conflicts, of unexpected pairings of words and actions. Lord Greyleigh was, with no gloss upon it, a peculiar man.
It was easy to believe him mad, easy to know she had to leave his house as soon as possible. There was no record of her for him to find, of course, not in the smoldering remains of the asylum. She could not let him know her family's name, could not involve them in the scandalous ruin of her "marriage." She would have to find another way, some manner of excuse to leave on her own.
The people of this community would be reluctant to allow a supposed madwoman to roam the countryside, of course, even if Elizabeth still had her stolen horse to ride away on. Not that she could ride with her foot so badly injured anyway, even if she had the gall to steal one of Lord Greyleigh's horses.
How to leave here was a problem, a huge problem. Admittedly, too big a problem for a head made weary by the effects of laudanum. She would have to sleep first, to presume on her strange host's hospitality a while longer. There was naught else for it.
Even as she lay back and allowed the drug's shadows to reclaim her, she found it odd that she could so easily give in to slumber, here in a madman's home. But there was something about Greyleigh's demeanor that had, oddly, reassured her. He was not a violent man, she thought, secure in that groundless conclusion. It was an instinct. .. not that she ought to trust her instinct when it came to men. Radford had proven that. But Lord Greyleigh had made it clear he wanted her gone . . . and there was reassurance in that realization, because it meant they both wanted exactly the same thing.
That was not logical. . . but it was growing difficult to care about logic, let alone escape this place. . . . Elizabeth let dreams claim her once more.
Gideon stepped back from the closed door, and let his chin fall to his chest as he cast the weariest of all sighs. He had fought his own nature too long, that was the problem.
Along comes trouble and, sure enough, he had not remembered his own vow, very recently pledged, on how to deal in the future with all strangers, with outcasts, with the unfortunate.
His heart was gone, eaten away. It was all used up. It did not exist within him any longer. He had nothing, no part left of it to give away, not even in simple courtesy.
And yet.. . and yet he had acted, just as he always had. Out of habit—long, weary habit, and nothing more—he told himself this, and he believed it as truth.
It was too late to change his very nature—he sensed that, understood that. But the only alternative was never to change at all, and that was impossible in this world. Change came regardless. It did not matter that Gideon was hollow; outwardly he must continue to make a good show of it. What else was there? Nothing. Weary, terrible nothingness, People said Gideon was mad—and was not this nothingness, this hollow feeling, the very essence of madness? If he could believe it of himself, how could he blame anyone else, even his brothers, for suspecting him of having inherited his mother's lunacy?
Life went on, however, whether he was mad or not, he thought with a low, dark, humorless chuckle. He turned from the door, blindly seeking the stairs, to go down to the comforting isolation of his library.
He must rid himself of the chains he had placed on his own wrists, he reminded himself as he moved through dark corridors. He must start somewhere, sometime—and so he would start with this peculiar creature who had worn a silk gown in her asylum cell, who suddenly became childlike and claimed she wished to dance at an imaginary wedding.
He would send her away as soon as possible, even if he had to pay another asylum to accept her.
At the thought, his hands formed fists and a touch of guilt lashed him. But guilt was an old, familiar companion, and he would not be swayed by its whispers and innuendoes. His course was clear. The others who had survived the fire, three of them, would be easy, for they had all supplied names and directions. He would very soon rid this house of their tainting presence. However, the wounded woman-child just beyond this door would be harder to cast out—but she most certainly would be cast out.
Madness or the devil might as well take him now if he did not do this thing, did not make a change. But he would make it so. It was his due. It was the only choice left for him to make. He would not care a whit for the woman's future—and thereby perhaps, just perhaps, preserve whatever he had that could be called sanity.
Chapter 4
When next Elizabeth roused, a glance at an ormolu clock she spied on the mantel over the fireplace told her twelve hours had passed since she had awakened last. It had been the heart of the night then. Now birds sang outside a partially open window with the particular gusto they reserved for mornings; a maid had presumably opened the window to let in some air for the good of the "patient." Logic had returned, for Elizabeth found that her now unmuddled mind was able to discern that, from the time of the attack, she had slept through two dawns.
Imagine, more than a whole day abed, in a virtual stranger's home. Well, if there was any good to be had from a day lost, perhaps it was that Radford Barnes could not approach Elizabeth, not here in a private home. That was something for which to be grateful.
That is, if he had ever come after her at all. Perhaps he was just as happy to let her go. He could always buy another horse to match the pair she had broken by taking one of his team. More important, and harder to believe, perhaps he had not realized that she yet wore his ring, that distinctive signet ring of his.
Elizabeth sat up, aware the twinge in her shoulder was nearly gone, assuring her the injury had been but a bruise. Not so her heel—she was well aware of the throbbing there.
The effort of sitting up had been a major one, leaving her feeling shaky. She was not sure she had the strength to do what she must, which was to sketch out her immediate future. Still, strength or no, she must plan, and the sooner the better.
First, of course, she must learn the extent of her injuries, for that would determine how quickly she might be up and about.
Second, she must find new lodgings. And there was the rub, for she had absolutely no destination in mind.
Well then, best to approach the problem from a different direction: where must she not go? Not to Papa's, of course, nor any other place in London. There were too many knowing eyes in London. The same must be said of Bath, and Brighton, and Bristol. In fact, no large city would do at all. It must be a reclusive place, a place where no one could know Miss Elizabeth Hatton by sight.
Very well then. A remote location would be easy enough to come by. Any place would do so long as it was neither a spa nor any kind of fashionable place where Society might gather. The real problem, of course, was how to get there. Radford's horse was long since gone, and Elizabeth had no coin by which to hire a coach or ride the Mails. ... At the thought of coins, her hand flew down to her waist, quickly discovering that the purse she had tied to her shift was missing.
Her shift—where was it? It flashed through her mind to wonder who had removed her garments and replaced them with this night rail, but her modesty held a decided second place to her financial alarm.
/> "No!" she cried aloud, for the only thing that stood between her and utter poverty was the contents of that purse. The little leather drawstring bag held her share of her deceased mother's jewels—not a lavish inheritance by any means, but still fine enough to be bartered for a sum of ready cash. Elizabeth thought perhaps the value of the pieces might draw as much as a hundred pounds, and a hundred pounds was enough for rent, food, coal, and the other necessities of life in some remote village. It could last as long as six months, or perhaps even a year if she was very prudent and rather lucky.
Although, she counseled herself bitterly, it would be best not to rely on luck—not if the recent past was anything by which to judge.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, grunting in pain and ignoring the shooting spots of light that flared before her eyes. She had to get up and search the room, the drawers and cupboards. She had to find the purse, no matter if she injured her heel further. She stood, balancing precariously on her uninjured foot.
Next to the bed stood a table topped by a bowl, a ewer filled with water, and a towel neatly folded to one side. The table had two drawers. It was just close enough so that Elizabeth was able to lean forward, balancing on the one foot, and grasp the pull on the nearest drawer. It slid open, revealing a set of silver-backed combs, brushes, and a hand-held looking glass. Elizabeth did not bother to shut the drawer, but with a groan levered herself fully upright. She took a small hop that jarred her injured heel so much that her teeth itched and her eyes watered, but she just managed to reach the other pull. The drawer slid open, and Elizabeth almost fell to the floor in a mix of relief and exhaustion, for her leather purse lay within.
She pulled the drawer out farther and stretched her fingers, and managed to snag the purse before she sagged back against the bed, half on and half off, but feeling triumphant nonetheless. The weight of the purse felt right, and a quick inspection proved the original contents remained.
The Misfit Marquess Page 3