The Misfit Marquess

by Teresa DesJardien

  She had known he was exasperated with her in the library, that her presence had disturbed his work, but she had not wanted to leave. It was interesting, fascinating even, to watch a man at work, to see him bite a lip in consternation at something in his logbooks, to see him stand and stretch and be heedlessly male in his movements.

  Elizabeth had begun to study men in this new way, with these newly opened eyes, almost from the moment Radford had first taken her in his arms after their hasty "marriage" in a little village chapel. No man was outside her circle of regard: footmen, innkeepers, hawkers calling their wares in the street—all of them were intensely fascinating. Some for their muscles, their "foreignness"; some for their speech, the pitch of their voices or the amusement of their banter; some for a certain savoir-faire that was difficult to define but now easy for Elizabeth to see. She felt as if she had been living in a fog, near these fascinating creatures called men, but yet removed from actually seeing them fully.

  Some were coarse, some profane, some polished, and others too effeminate, but all engaged Elizabeth's senses in a way they never had only a few weeks earlier.

  Which, sadly, just went to prove her utter lack of judgment. Men could harm her, control her, forbid her what she wanted, and thwart her.

  To be fascinated by men was like being fascinated by one of the lions in the Menagerie at the Tower: they were a marvel to behold from afar, but a woman would be a fool to ever climb into the cage with them. One knew it, one understood it, one feared the creature's power.. . but something made one want to open the trapdoor and reach out to the very thing that could destroy one.

  Elizabeth could not even say it was all Radford's fault, for he had only awakened in her a desire that was already there, lying dormant. She could not blame the lion for having its allure. She could only blame herself for responding so avidly to it.

  And, God save her, she feared her impulses, feared they could lead her to an even darker future.

  In simple, honest terms, she was ruined. She would be removed from Society for six months, maybe more, dependent on Lorraine's situation. During that six months, people would wonder where Elizabeth had gone. People would whisper. Once she did come home again, Elizabeth knew that, as a matrimonial prospect, she could not look high—if she married at all.

  Oh, someone might want her to wife despite the whispers. An older man whose wife had perished, leaving him with a half dozen children, perhaps. Or a Cit, possibly, looking to align his lack of a good surname with that of a knight's daughter.

  For that matter, Elizabeth did not fear being alone, for Papa would see that she had a home and a small income. Indeed, she could live with Papa and Francine, even though there would be little enough happiness there.

  No, what she feared was that any path she took, alone, or with Papa, or with a man she married for convenience, she would never know love.

  No matter how brief it had been, for a very short while she had been happy, and had meant to be a loving wife. The physical act had been wonderful, because she had believed it was meant to be wonderful, had believed that she was married to a man who loved her so much he had needed to marry her in haste or die from wanting her.

  Silly, foolish thoughts—impossible dreams—she saw that now. She thought she'd loved once, so fleetingly, but long enough to know what love ought to be. And she feared she would never know such a thing for even the briefest moment. How could she lie abed with a man and not love him? It seemed impossible, horrible—but it was her future, and that only if she were fortunate enough to attract a mate.

  Love is possible, even in an arranged marriage, even after a fall from grace, whispered a traitorous inner voice.

  But in her heart of hearts Elizabeth feared it was for her only a hope and not a real possibility. She no longer believed she could marry and then learn to love. She would have to love the man before the ceremony, she knew, or she would never love him. Tolerance and patience could be learned, but love? She did not think so.

  For the first time in her life she understood how it was that some women became old maids, as they were so unkindly called. They may have chosen their path, a world without men and without babies, because they could not bear the price that it would cost them to travel the usual course set out for womankind. They would rather be alone, without a growing family at their feet, than live beside a man they could not cherish.

  Elizabeth sighed, already learning to loathe this bed on which she spent too much of her day, and now there was a long evening looming ahead. It was a wide bed, built for two, which thought only made her musings turn more sour yet.

  At least her door was open, having been left so by the footmen, presumably so they could hear her call out if she required anything. She felt a little less alone in the world with the door open, with bustling servants passing by on their various errands.

  At that moment, Lord Greyleigh strode past her door, once again dressed for an outing. Elizabeth bit her lip in vexation at the instantaneous response she experienced, a turning-over sensation somewhere in the vicinity of her navel, that reminded her once more that he was male and she female. Yet more proof that she had no sensibility when it came to matters of men. Heaven help her, she was strung as tight as a violin, and longing for someone, anyone, to play her. It was humiliating—ridiculous. She could almost giggle—it was preferable to crying—at her warmth of feeling, at the absurdity of the awakened, passionate nature she could well have done without.

  However, any giggle was instantly stifled, for Lord Greyleigh retread his steps, stopping to lean nonchalantly into her doorway. He removed his hat, and she wondered how many people upon first meeting him thought he powdered his hair in the old fashion. She wondered, too, how many women had stood close enough to him to know that his eyes were the very lightest blue, not grey as one might think.

  "Do you require anything?" he inquired politely, the perfect host.

  "Nothing, thank you."

  "Do you wish your door closed?"

  "No, thank you, I like to see people moving about. If it does not disturb you?"

  "I should hardly think it could." He stood away from the doorjamb, juggling his hat in preparation of returning it to his head. "I am going to my club in Bristol," he said.

  "I hope it makes for a pleasant evening," she said with a smile, faintly surprised that he should bother to tell her his destination.

  He pointed at her propped foot with his hat. "Do you think you might be able to get about some with the use of canes?"

  Ah, so that was why he had stopped, to inquire if there were some way to hurry her recovery. She could not really fault him for wanting her out of his house.

  "Yes, I should think canes would help," she said, again with a smile.

  "I am sure there are some about. My walking stick would never do, the head is too decorative for comfort, but I am certain the servants can find something about the house that could be of service."

  "That would be most helpful." She could not quite keep an acerbic tone from entering her voice.

  He gave a little scowl, but then he nodded, bowed, and resumed his way.

  Elizabeth listened to the sound of his boot heels until she could no longer hear them, then lay back against the bed's pillows and sighed.

  "She who has never lov'd, has never liv'd," she again quoted from John Gay, and the notion made her smile ever so slightly. Perhaps she smiled from the consoling truth of the saying, or perhaps from remembering the scene in the library, she was not entirely sure. On any account, her spirits lifted, and she began to wonder how one used canes to get about.

  Chapter 10

  A half hour later, with the sun just setting for the night, Gideon sat next to a silver-haired man already gaming at a faro table. They both sat within the slightly shabby but comfortable confines of their mutual and unsuitably named club, the Elegance, a gaming club more familiarly known as the Elly. The silver-haired gentleman nodded a greeting. "Greyleigh."

  Gideon nodded in return. "Row
botham."

  "You have just arrived, but, alas, I am just prepared to leave," Rowbotham said. "The play's too deep for my pockets tonight. No luck, y'see. And I warn you, the beef is dry as dust tonight as well."

  "Seems I could have chosen a better evening to attend," Gideon said with a slight smile, although it was an effort to make the comment sound light and carefree. He did not feel particularly carefree. He liked Lord Rowbotham well enough, but the man was thirty years older and not the sort of acquaintance to chase shadows from one's thoughts, not the right companion for tonight at all.

  "'Fraid so, my lad." Rowbotham reached for his small pile of remaining markers even as Gideon laid his purse on the green baize of the game table. The older man slid the markers into his vest pocket, turned to signal for his hat and cane, then offered Gideon his regrets. "Hope my lack of luck runs the opposite with you, Greyleigh," he said with the absent pleasantness of a fellow club member.

  Gideon murmured a farewell, saying he'd do his best, even though he already sensed the evening would not accomplish his goal of diversion, for he now sat alone at the faro table. The liveried servant behind the table inquired if my lord was ready to play, but Gideon shook his head. "A drink," he said instead, leaving his purse where it lay as he stood and crossed to where several other club members sat over glasses of port.

  He was invited to join them, and ordered brandy from the waiter who appeared at once to take his request. The group was not a chatty one, and it quickly became evident that good luck at the gaming tables had been elusive this night for all but one of their number. Even he, Grant by name, was not particularly thrilled by his winnings, for the stakes had never climbed high enough in his estimation. The conversation turned to other evenings of ill luck at the cards, and Gideon soon found his attention wandering.

  He had come to Elly's for the specific purpose of being with people—but people who could not, would not demand much of him. He need not engage in the light conversation, and would be allowed to sip quietly at his snifter, and no one would find him odd for doing so. Elly's was not a place for wild gaming, but sensible risks of expendable funds, a level of play of which Gideon approved.

  But tonight he could have used some of the harmless chaos of a place such as Brooks's in London, where extraordinary sums were won or lost in an hour's gaming. He could have used the usual babble around the large betting book at White's—for Gideon wanted to be distracted. He wanted to be reminded that some people were in the world for the simple purpose of entertainment, and that there was something other than duty, somewhere.

  Serious people with serious problems he already had aplenty at home. At a noisy, frivolous place like White's, people would speak with him, but it would be small talk, desultory. It would demand no real decisions, no judgments that affected the course of entire lives.

  At home, Gideon had three men in varying stages of mental confusion, albeit two of them were due to leave tomorrow. Their families had been found and had agreed to come and retrieve their members burned out by the asylum fire. His staff would be gratified to see the men go, as they had been put to work in the kitchens and had nearly driven Cook to distraction.

  But what of the one called Alfred Thompson, the one they had been forced to tie by the ankle to the big kitchen table so he would not wander away? The man had babbled that his family lived in Salisbury, but he had yet to produce a coherent direction for them. Gideon had sent a footman by horse to Salisbury, hoping there was a Thompson family to be found there. With any luck, the man would be a problem soon solved, before Cook quit, as he threatened to do daily.

  And if Thompson wasn't trouble enough, there were a dozen others to nag at Gideon's conscience. Simons, for instance. Despite the man's missing fingers, he was competent enough as a footman—but he'd requested that Gideon interview and possibly hire a colleague he'd met in the war, another physically injured man now out of work. Apparently the man was missing a leg, but thought that despite the need for crutches, his service once as a batman qualified him to do well as a valet.

  A valet, on crutches? Gideon shook his head, but as much at himself as at Simons, because Gideon had been soft-headed enough to agree to see the man.

  Then there was the maid who was in a family way; and young Jamie in the stables who kept the other stable lads awake with his nightly screams since his entire family had perished in a coaching accident; and there was Elizabeth of course—the mystery woman with the polish and poise of a queen, but the inconsistent ways and words of a madwoman. Truth be told, Elizabeth was the least of his problems, because she meant to leave, she wanted to go, but only must wait upon some healing. His biggest problem lay with those who had come to his home to stay.

  But how could he turn any of them away? If he had not been born, would his brothers have cared for their mother? Was caring for others his fate? And how could he call it "caring" when all he wanted to do was escape every last one of them?

  Gideon sipped his brandy, not surprised when his thoughts shifted to again linger on Elizabeth. That was only to be expected since Mr. Arbuckle had made his report on her this afternoon.

  "Nary a word on a missing Miss B," the hired investigator had said with a puzzled shake of his head. "Got a lad in London what reports to me, and I been to every city within fifty miles o' Severn's Well, and I tell you there's nary a word. Course, folks wouldn't be looking for a missing gel from an asylum, says I, unless they has reason to know she ain't there no more. I spread that word, too, but that'll take time to work up any news, o' course. I ain't heard from Nottingham yet, but word is the post is late 'cause of heavy rain up that way, so I'll have word in a day or two. And o' course I got someone watchin' the post for letters to the asylum."

  "Perhaps we're going about this all wrong," Gideon had said, cupping his chin in his hand as he gazed at Mr. Arbuckle.

  "Your meaning, sir?" Arbuckle had said with no sign that he had taken affront.

  "Perhaps we're wrong to concentrate on the ring, on the 'B'. She could have stolen it for all we know. Better to follow up on the news you spread of the fire. Only the coldest clan would not wonder what had become of their pretty young family member after she was burned out of her, er, residence, even if she was not right in her mind. I like that you are watching the post, but perhaps you ought to be inquiring, too, after missing heiresses, that manner of thing. Miss Elizabeth is not entirely dicked in the nob. She strikes me as the sort who might have been encouraged to go to the asylum for 'rest,' but also possibly to get her away from an unfortunate connection."

  "Like wantin' to run off with her dancin' master, that manner o' thing?"

  "Exactly. It is time to listen to gossip. That's where we'll most likely find something of Miss Elizabeth's origins."

  "Right-o," Mr Arbuckle had said, touching a finger to his forehead in a gesture of agreement. "Right-o!" he had said again with appreciation when Gideon tossed him a payment purse. "I'll be back soon as I know somethin', m'lord."

  Of course, Gideon considered now as he gazed into the amber liquid in his glass, Elizabeth's identity might never be determined. Certainly she did not wish it to be. And Gideon had other, more pressing concerns, such as why there were seemingly increasing cases of the ghost appearing in his house. He was not entirely convinced that Elizabeth had seen the ghost; she might have seen what she wished to see, what the servants told her to expect to see. Still, there was certainly something, or someone, in his house—someone who liked to tilt pictures, move branches of candles from one room to another, and someone who liked to hide his stickpins in odd places about the house.

  Oh, yes, he believed someone —or something— was doing these things, despite how he had downplayed the suggestion of a ghost to Elizabeth. He would not feed any such rumor, especially not to a woman whose clarity of mind he mistrusted. That was all he needed—a hysterical guest, who in turn would make his already skitterish servants hysterical, too.

  Perhaps that should be the primary question Gideon asked of this po
ssible valet Simons wished him to interview. Would you be willing to remain in my employ even if the house is haunted?

  Gideon's mouth twisted into a sour smile, and he set aside the brandy, which was not suiting tonight. In fact, Elly's was not suiting him either. He nodded to his associates, murmured his farewells, and waited only long enough for his hat, gloves, and purse to be brought to him before he departed into the night.

  "Might as well ponder my problems at home," he muttered to himself as he signaled his driver, since there was no escape from thoughts of his problems at his club tonight. He wondered briefly if he were running out of places where he could escape his burdens, however temporarily. He pushed the thought aside, for in that direction lay the madness he already too often feared may have been handed down from his mama.

  The next morning Gideon tucked under his arm the two stout wooden canes that Simons had discovered in the attics, and walked softly down his own hallway. He walked with care because he meant, most deliberately, to catch his temporary resident all but unaware in her room.

  Sneaking into a room was a procedure he had adopted in order to monitor his mother's behavior. In her later years, when her hold on reality had become weaker and her actions less comprehensible, she had also become secretive. She would dart about for hours on end, hiding little things in her clothing, like bits of ribbon or full spools of thread or inkpots, creating havoc for the maids on wash day.

  Near the end she had taken to saving bits of food in her napkin, but she had never consumed them in her room later. She had kept the food bits in her jewelry case, among her diamonds and rubies and sapphires. She had not liked it when the food bits were taken away, and so Gideon had learned to sneak in and clean them out when her maid was bathing her. He had never concluded why Mama had hoarded rinds of ham and broken biscuits and spoonfuls of butter, nor why they had been prized along with her jewels, but Mama had clearly had some unfathomable and persistent intent in mind.

  He had learned to quietly follow her, since he was, what, only eight or nine? At first it had been to shield her from Papa's unkindnesses, his blustering and roaring and condemning words. Later it had been to shield her from doing harm to herself or the household.