The Misfit Marquess

by Teresa DesJardien

  Elizabeth frowned, not liking the duplicitous slant of her plans, but there was nothing for it.

  Her frown deepened, for it occurred to her that it was odd that Lord Greyleigh had not mentioned her small purse filled with jewelry. Surely it had been reported to him that she had it. Someone had placed the purse in the drawer. He would not be unjustified in thinking she had stolen the pieces, but perhaps he had already seen their worth was not great, and had dismissed them as of no consequence regardless of why she had them.

  A sharp knock at the chamber door caused her to startle and flush guiltily. It was one thing to be a liar, but another to feel at ease with the charade. "Come in," she called, her voice not quite even.

  The maid with the eyepatch curtsied her way in and announced, "Mister Clifton to see you, miss."

  The surgeon, a heavyset man somewhere in his fifth decade and with kind eyes, entered and bowed at the waist. "I see my patient is awake at last."

  "You must be the one who bandaged my heel," Elizabeth said, resettling on the bed in a more upright position. She flushed scarlet again, realizing she had forgot to seem vague or disjointed. This was a rocky path she had chosen, this playacting.

  "I am." The surgeon nodded, crossing to the bedside, his black bag in hand. "A wicked cut that was. I would like to see if there is seepage, if I may?"

  Elizabeth surrendered her foot, and grimaced when he said the bandage must come off and be replaced.

  "Can it be left off altogether?" she asked, trying once again for a singsongy, rather childlike tone. "Please?"

  "No, indeed not, my girl! This wound is very deep. Do you understand me? The bandage serves as much to hold the sides of the wound together as it does to stop any bleeding. You must have it on for several weeks, or else the damage will only worsen." He stared into her eyes, as if looking for comprehension.

  What could she say, or do? This was unbearable, this role playing. Better to retreat into silence... indeed, had she not heard of people so disturbed that they never spoke again? Better silence than lies, for silence could not trip her up.

  She pursed her lips, and looked away.

  The surgeon clucked his tongue, then proceeded to bandage her wound. When he was done, he took her chin in his hand and turned her face up to where sunlight could illuminate it. He stared into her eyes, then asked to see her tongue, which she obligingly thrust out for his inspection. He clucked his tongue again, and met her gaze squarely.

  "I am going to see that Lord Greyleigh understands you are not to travel soon, not even if your family should be quickly discovered. It would do this wound great damage. We will have to see what level of putrefaction occurs. Although I do not favor leeches in all circumstances, this might also be required. If not properly cared for and left to mend, this wound might even affect your ability to walk with this foot later. Do you understand me?"

  She must have gone pale, for he nodded, and said, "I can see that you do. Do not remove this bandage, miss, and avoid putting any weight on the foot. It is very important it be left to mend, unmolested, for at least two weeks."

  Two weeks? she cried out in her mind. There went all her plans to leave promptly! How could she ever keep up a charade of insanity for two weeks? It was impossible. She simply would have to ignore this man's advice.

  "At worst, you could be crippled." the doctor w arned. apparently not liking something he saw in her expression.

  She lowered her eyes. "I understand."

  He seemed satisfied with that, nodding his head and gathering his supplies once more into his black bag. "I will speak with Lord Greyleigh." he repeated just before he left the room.

  Elizabeth sighed and settled back into the pillows. Two weeks? So which was the greater: the need for quick removal from this place, or the risk of permanently injuring her foot? Logic said the latter, but a kind of deliberate logic had led her to elope with Radford—and what a disaster that had proved.

  Either way she chose, risky speed or impatient lingering, there was only one way to get on w ith things. She withdrew her purse from under the covers and loosened the knotted draw strings. She up-ended the contents on to her lap: one ivory cameo: three pairs of earbobs. two of precious gems and one of pearls: one diamond and amethyst choker: two gold hair combs studded w ith diamond chips: and five rings of varying decoration.

  It was a fair feminine inheritance, in the normal sense of things, but in terms of purchasing a half year's existence, it was precious little. She hated to sell them, these last gifts from her mama, but there was no use in feeling regret that they must go. A girl had to eat and pay her keep. All the same, she sighed heavily as she replaced the jewelry in the purse.

  Things about this atypical household put a body on edge— for even as Elizabeth pulled the pursestrings into a knot, she jerked up her head at a glimmer of movement that had caught the corner of her eye. A flash of red. but then it was gone, and it was at that moment Elizabeth realized she stared at an angled looking glass placed over a dresser. Her own reflection did not reside in that angle—she turned abruptly to face the area mirrored in the silvered surface.

  A tapestry hung there, its bottom edge just touching the floor. It stirred ever so slightly.

  "You there, come out!" Elizabeth ordered, her voice roughened by alarm.

  There was no response, and the tapestry settled once more.

  "I shan't be perturbed with you, but I would like you to come out," Elizabeth insisted. She studied the far wall. Where would someone hide, for the surface was flat. Was there a door behind the tapestry? Or perhaps a window to echo the open one to her left?

  No one came forth.

  What had she seen? A flash of red—a cloak? But, no. For a heartbeat she had thought she had looked at her own reflection. ... Had she seen a face? Gooseflesh raced up Elizabeth's arms at the thought.

  She threw back her coverlet, only to catch her breath and go utterly still. Her movement had caused intense pain to radiate all the way up from her heel to her knee.

  Gasping and moving gingerly, and with an eye on the tapestry, Elizabeth reached across the width of the bed, her fingers just managing to grasp the bellpull.

  A sharp tug brought a knock at her door in short order. "Come in," she called at once.

  A maid entered, one Elizabeth had certainly not seen before, for this one was undeniably in the family way. The woman's high, rounded belly thrust forward, tightly covered by a white apron.

  "Miss?" the maid inquired on a curtsy.

  Elizabeth stared, realizing she had never before seen an expectant maid, at least not one clearly engaged in service. Most maids were unmarried girls, in service until such time as they attracted a husband, whose house they then went to and where they spent their confinements. "I..." Elizabeth floundered for a moment as this newest shock displaced her previous alarm. She shook her head, as though to clear it of cobwebs, and uttered, "The tapestry. Please pull it aside."

  The maid glanced between Elizabeth and the tapestry, open puzzlement etched on her features, but she moved to do as she was bid.

  Behind the tapestry there rose a flock-papered wall. No window, no door.

  "But," Elizabeth said on something near a gasp. "Is there not some manner of door there?"

  "No, miss," the maid said, and now it was her tone that implied puzzlement.

  'There must be a ... what are they called? A secret passage, used by monks, to escape persecution."

  The maid just stared, still holding back the edge of the tapestry.

  "Well, then, don't just stand there, knock on it, on the wall," Elizabeth instructed, pointing at the width of the tapestry.

  The maid obliged with a series of raps down the wall, atop the tapestry, all of which made a solid thunk as she knocked. "It's just a wall, miss," she said.

  Elizabeth gazed at the wallpaper, pale yellow and white, and then back at the looking glass. Maybe she had considered the angle wrong? But a quick glance proved nothing in the room was red, and no matter how one cons
idered it, the flash of red that the looking glass had shown had to have been in the vicinity of the tapestry.

  "Did you want luncheon, or perhaps tea and biscuits, miss?" the maid asked, releasing the tapestry to come back around to the bedside.

  "No," Elizabeth said, only to instantly reconsider. Perhaps that blow to her forehead had done more harm than she had thought? Or perhaps she was faint from lack of nourishment, and she was seeing things. "Rather, yes," she said, causing the maid to ever so slightly raise her eyebrows. "I would care for luncheon after all, please."

  The maid nodded, then left, a decided waddle to her step, betraying yet again her enceinte state.

  Left on her own, Elizabeth glared at the tapestried wall—she was unquestionably being affected by this house, with its curious selection of maids, its somber walls made of brick like a prison, and its master who was rumored to be unsteady in his mind.

  Two weeks. Things could not go on as they stood.

  Elizabeth reached once more for the bellpull, and this time it was the maid with the eyepatch who answered. "Miss?" she asked, a tinge of exasperation in her voice. "Luncheon is coming."

  "Very good. What is your name?"

  "Polly, if it please you, miss." The pronouncement was accompanied by a small curtsy.

  "Polly, I rang again because I need to see Lord Greyleigh."

  "Before luncheon?"

  "Yes, if he is at home."

  A mutter of reluctant assent was all Elizabeth got before the maid retreated once more into the hall. At least, Elizabeth thought to herself, if the maid found it odd that Elizabeth wished to receive the master of the house here in her sickbed, she did not say as much. That, for once, was a happy reaction in this peculiar household.

  "Has the doctor reported my condition to you?" Elizabeth asked of Lord Greyleigh twenty minutes later. He stood three large strides from her bedside. Really, one might think from his remote stance that she was contagious—although three strides' distance was preferable to his usual seated pose nearly at her elbow.

  "Mister Clifton did confide in me, yes."

  "It was made clear to me that I ought not travel for a week."

  "Two weeks."

  Elizabeth compressed her lips together, then had to concede the point. "Yes well, I suppose the surgeon did say two weeks. I hope this length of time is not an inconvenience for you."

  Lord Greyleigh cocked his head ever so slightly to one side, and Elizabeth could almost read his mind: he must be wondering why she was suddenly sounding so rational.

  She would explain to him in a moment, but first she wanted no other misunderstandings. "I do want to be clear, very clear," she rushed on, "that I will not impose on your hospitality beyond the two weeks."

  He nodded in acceptance, and it seemed his countenance cleared as though in relief. "You recall where your family resides?"

  'That is something I cannot share," she stated, sounding prim even to herself. "But I wish you to understand something, Lord Greyleigh." Elizabeth took a deep breath and plunged into one final lie. "I came to this place to ... to restore my nerves. Such a cure has been effected. I may have been of a nervous disposition, but I was not then nor am I now mad, my lord."

  She glanced up at Greyleigh to judge how her words struck him, but she might as well have been looking at carved marble.

  His regard was marked only by its usual banal aspect of half-interested attention.

  Elizabeth pursed her lips again, and decided the man was decidedly lacking in social aptitude. "I have reasons for not wanting to return to my family, and therefore have made other plans," she said firmly.

  "Plans?" he echoed casually, as if she talked of going on a mere jaunt to view the ocean.

  "These plans need not concern you, my lord, other than to make you aware that I shall leave promptly after two weeks have passed." She folded her hands together, a gesture of finality.

  "What if your wound remains unfit for travel?"

  "Even so, I will go. All I require from you is information as to when the Post runs through Severn's Well."

  "The Post, Elizabeth? I think not, not with a foot that requires coddling. You will make use of one of my coaches. I insist."

  "You are very kind," Elizabeth said, trying to sound sincere, but it was difficult to be grateful when the look that suddenly crossed his face was strained. He looked ... distressed, but Elizabeth could not think why he should.

  Still, this offer of a private coach was a boon, for heaven only knew how dreadful travel, while nursing an injury, would be on a Post coach.

  Lord Greyleigh took a dismissing step backward. "Very good," he said crisply, still with an edge of agitation in his manner. "Good day, Elizabeth," he said over a swift bow.

  The abrupt end of the conversation caught Elizabeth off-guard, but she managed a nod and a smile. "By the by, I do thank you, Lord Greyleigh, for rescuing me." It felt good to speak without reservation, without pretense. "I am aware I might have perished in that ditch had you not found me."

  "From pneumonia perhaps, but otherwise your injuries would not have proven fatal, I think," he said in answer.

  What curious light eyes he had. Although calm and seemingly benign in all his manners, those eyes seemed to place peculiar emphasis on any words he spoke. Elizabeth found herself searching for hidden meaning in the mildest of terms and for sinister meaning in such phrases as "proven fatal." This man made shivers course up her spine at unexpected moments; when she looked into those exotic eyes, it was easy to wonder if nature had whitewashed his eyes to match an emptiness in his soul.

  "Yes, well," she said with a disconcerted little laugh. "Even so, I thank you, sir."

  He inclined his head again, as he might in casual recognition of a common courtesy, and although nothing changed in his demeanor, it was at that moment that Elizabeth was convinced she had not been believed. Her thanks, yes, but not her claims as to a cure, as to having full possession of her wits.

  There was something in Lord Greyleigh's aspect that she had seen before, in him, in herself, in Papa. It was a kind of genteel doubt, evinced usually through an avuncular laugh or a slide of the eyes or a nervous shrug. In Lord Greyleigh it was something to do with his eternally even tone, with the way he held his shoulders.

  So he yet chose to believe she was not in her right mind—it mattered not. She was once again comfortable in her own truths, and she would be gone in two weeks—sooner if she thought it possible to travel safely before then. He had no reason to hold her here. No one in the village would blame him for letting her go, particularly now that she had no intention of maintaining a pretense of insanity. Even if he chose to continue to believe she was bewildered or even incoherent, the maids would see that she was neither mad nor dangerous. Once she was mended enough, she could be happily sent on her way, no threat to the community, no longer a burden to Lord Greyleigh's household. Greyleigh could believe her demented if he wished, but it would change nothing.

  Still, when he bowed his way out of the room, Elizabeth was left with a sense of disappointment that he had not accepted her word that there was nothing wrong with her. Or perhaps dis-gruntlement was the better word. Either way, she was glad for the distraction of the one-eyed maid, Polly, arriving just then with a luncheon tray.

  Chapter 6

  Five minutes later, Gideon stood behind his library desk, staring down at the list he had been compiling. It was wasted work now—a list of places to inquire after an inmate's relations.

  Though perhaps not wasted after all. Just because the girl claimed she "could not share" the name or locale of her family, it did not necessarily follow that he must not find such information for himself.

  But why make the effort? She would be gone, escorted away by his own coach-and-four within a fortnight. It would be empty effort to pursue her name and lineage simply for the sake of possessing it. But there was something about this girl, this young woman, something that nagged at one's sense of right and wrong.

  Where cou
ld she mean to go, if not home? What thoughts tumbled in her pretty, dark-haired head? He could not doubt "tumbled" was the proper term—for had not his own mother many times declared herself cured? But such cures had never been true, never a reality except in her own befuddled mind.

  Gideon could not trust a woman who blithely claimed that all was well. He supposed there were women for whom such assertions were true—but he had yet to meet such a one. In his experience women held secrets, and they held them close, sometimes even closer than they allowed themselves to know.

  This woman had done nothing to change Gideon's first impression. One moment the female had been preparing to dance at her imaginary wedding, and the next stating in a clear and sane-sounding manner that she would be going away without first identifying herself, her origins, or her destination. In Gideon's world this vacillation, this altering of manner, meant there was little doubt the woman's nerves were unsteady.

  So Gideon would do as he'd planned; he would pay Clyde Arbuckle, an investigator from Bristol, to learn what the man could of Miss Elizabeth B. Too bad they were far from London and its celebrated Bow Street Runners, but Mr. Arbuckle would serve well enough, as he had in the past, to find out something about this female who chose to remain lost. Mr. Arbuckle had done other "quiet" work for Gideon, and would not demur at finding out a name and direction.

  In the meanwhile, Gideon would avoid his guest, as much as good manners and conscience would allow. He'd be happy enough to see the back of the coach bearing Elizabeth away— one less burden among an already overwhelming mountain of burdens. But through Mr. Arbuckle he would know something of the stranger in his guest room before she went. Knowing was how he protected himself. It was what he did, what he was good at. Never mind for now his own weariness at juggling a dozen problems, to say nothing of a dozen desires.