The Misfit Marquess

by Teresa DesJardien

  "My dear lady, you could follow your own advice! Frick tells me you have been asking my maids if there is a place in Severn's Well in which one might sell jewelry. You could, allow me to point out, have asked me such a question."

  Elizabeth blushed a deep red, and it was a moment before she found her voice. "My question is the sort that could be asked of anyone. Yours was not."

  He gave her a skeptical look. "So what is all this about jewels?" he asked. "If you require some pin money, I will gladly supply you with a sum."

  She went stiff and tilted her head back far enough to be able to look down her nose at him. "Indeed not. I will supply my own funds. Not pin money, my lord. Funds."

  "I could—"

  "You will not'" she insisted. "I would not accept it. Please," she went on, her tone softening, "all I require is the name of a place where such a transaction may occur, and perhaps the use of a footman to conduct the business for me."

  "Wendell's," Gideon said reluctantly. "There is a shop owned by Mr. Wendell. He might be in the market to purchase jewelry."

  "Excellent," she said with a shadow of a smile, and then she went into her chamber and practically shut the door in his face.

  He turned from her door, shaking his head, because he was well aware what Elizabeth had brought with her into his home: her person; her cloak, clothing, and shift (all now burned); her kid leather slippers; her ring marked with a B; and nothing else. There had been no jewels. The maid who had changed an unconscious Elizabeth into a night rail had listed for Gideon this woman's pitiful few belongings, for they had been searching for a clue as to her identity.

  "Poor, misguided thing," Gideon said aloud, shaking his head again. He wondered briefly if Mr. Arbuckle would ever discover who the woman was. But her identity was not Gideon's problem, for she was determined to be gone as soon as possible, regardless of what he knew. That suited him perfectly, Gideon reminded himself.

  Chapter 11

  Ten minutes later, Elizabeth crossed her arms and, almost pouting, thought that she wanted to pace. She could not, of course, but the impulse was strong. She had done her best to put her disgruntlement with Lord Greyleigh out of her thoughts, but lying here atop her bedclothes with her eyes closed had only made her feel her pique all the more sharply.

  For pity's sake, did this man not know what agreement had been made with the servant girl who was undoubtedly bearing his child? Had he left the settling of his illegitimate infant and its mother's welfare up to some intermediary—this butler of his, perhaps?

  Well, no, not by way of Frick, not logically, because then Lord Greyleigh would simply ask the butler what conditions had been established for the girl and her child. Maybe Greyleigh had proposed a plan for the future to the maid, and yet awaited her response? That could be. But that made of the man a coward: asking Elizabeth about a letter's contents instead of asking the girl directly!

  Not that it mattered to Elizabeth that Lord Greyleigh was as odd and intemperate as his mother had surely been. Even in far London Elizabeth had heard that Lady Greyleigh had spent all her married life in a mental decline—was it any wonder that her son inherited her affliction? Still, it was ... disturbing to have his behavior with a servant cast into Elizabeth's own lap. It was almost as disturbing as trying to reconcile the word "coward" with the little she knew of Lord Greyleigh's disposition.

  And his constant offers to help, to carry her about or settle funds upon her! The former was disagreeable—emotionally if not physically—and the latter was simply unacceptable. He had no notion of her financial needs and would be shocked should he somehow learn she meant to establish a household by herself. He was .. . intrusive, that was the word! He kept thrusting his nose into business that did not concern him, and worse yet, making her feel guilty that she would not confide that business to him.

  He was her host, and only that—and only for eleven more days. She owed him nothing, except her thanks. However, she had promised him an eventual explanation—but the word "eventual" was the key. He was boorish to insist on anything else. They had an agreement, and she would remind him of that if he could not remember it for himself.

  She sat up in bed, sighing heavily as she put the back of her hand to her forehead. Yes, she was still too warm. And her heel was beyond warm now, feeling puffy and throbbing anytime she moved it at all.

  Elizabeth bit her lip. She hated the thought of calling a surgeon in once more, for it only meant more cost for Lord Greyleigh, more debt she owed him, but it was becoming clear that the wound would not improve without some intervention.

  Although . .. perhaps she could repay Lord Greyleigh more immediately than she had thought, by leaving one of her jewels for him? She scowled, for each jewel had a value that equaled so many days of survival.

  She looked down at the signet ring, with its distinctive sweeping B engraved on its surface and roses engraved on the thick band on either side of the signet letter, and realized she wore it yet on her left hand. She ought to put it in her jewel purse, but until she had the opportunity, at least she would no longer wear it on her left.

  It was the work of a moment to move it to her right hand. Perhaps this very ring was the one item she could repay Lord Greyleigh with . . . but, no, it would serve her best as a ring to wear when she lived on her own. She would pretend to be a widow, and must have a wedding band to support that claim, and of her rings, this one most looked the part. In any event, what would an unmarried man such as Lord Greyleigh do with a ring marked with a B?

  He probably had a mistress that he kept somewhere; he could give it to her if the initial would serve. The thought of Gideon giving this ring to a Barbara or a Beatrice or a Miss Brown made Elizabeth's scowl grow deeper.

  Deciding now was as good a time as any to put the ring away, Elizabeth leaned back on the bed and slid a hand inside one of the pillowcases. She sought the jewel purse she had hidden there. Finding nothing, she made an exasperated sound, and tried the remaining three pillows. Nothing.

  Her heart hammering, she reached back, intending to grasp the bellpull, but then she glimpsed the leather purse just poking out from under the coverlet's edge. She snatched it up with relief, only to gasp at its ominous lack of weight, its flat profile. Her fingers, frantically pulling open the already loosened drawstrings, told her what her eyes had to see to believe: her jewels were gone. Every one of them, gone.

  "My lord?" One of the maids bobbed a curtsy where she stood at the library door she had just opened.

  "What is it?" Gideon asked, glancing up. Within two heartbeats he was already standing up behind his desk because of the uneasy look on the maid's face. "What has happened?" he demanded.

  "It's Miss Elizabeth, sir," the maid said, twisting the hem of her apron with both hands. "She's tearing her room apart and shouting at the maid what cleaned the room while Miss Elizabeth were walking about this morning."

  Gideon closed his eyes for a moment, filled instantly with an old, familiar sinking feeling. "Very well. I will take care of the matter. Have coffee and a bottle of whiskey sent up to Miss Elizabeth's room, please, as soon as may be."

  The maid bobbed her head and a curtsy all at once, and quickly ran off to do as she was bid.

  Gideon forced himself to take the stairs one at a time, with outward calm. Calm was best in these situations. It could sometimes be communicated to the disturbed person, averting any further scenes.

  He knocked at Elizabeth's door, but let himself in at once, still moving calmly, smoothly. She was on her knees, her injured foot leveled off the floor, while she searched with a sweeping arm under the bed.

  "Elizabeth," he said a bit loudly, hoping she was not too far lost to reality to hear him despite the state her mind was in, and that he was not so loud that he conversely startled her into yet more hysterics.

  She jerked upward, hitting her shoulder on the bed frame. "Oof!" She scooted backward awkwardly and turned to glare at him. "Did you take my jewels, or order them taken?"

  "Wh
at jewels, Elizabeth?" he said quietly, striding with an outwardly unruffled gait toward her. He stooped down next to her, bringing his face closer to her eye level. When she did not cringe or retreat, he dared to reach slowly and touch her shoulder.

  She pulled back, so that his fingers could no longer touch the fabric of her green gown's sleeve. "I believe your staff failed to inform you, at least originally, but I had a leather purse. It contained my jewels. It is now empty. I want my jewels returned." Her eyes burned-with an avid intensity as she held aloft a small upended purse, which was clearly devoid of contents.

  "What do they look like?" he said, daring to inch forward and reach out his other hand. He placed it slowly on her other shoulder. 'These jewels of yours?"

  "I have five rings, three pairs of earbobs, a very fine choker, and two hair combs. Oh, and an ivory cameo. Your maid must have taken them this morning while I was out." Elizabeth threw a furious glance at red-eyed and snuffling Jeannie. "But she will not admit to it."

  "I didn't take nothing!" Jeannie cried, nearly breaking into a fresh bout of tears. "I wouldn't, m'lord. I want to keep on working here, honest I do. I wouldn't do nothing to lose me my position here, I never would!"

  "Hush now," Gideon said softly, not aiming the comment at either woman, but for the room at large. "Jeannie, I will talk with you later. Be assured you will not lose your position." Elizabeth gave him a sharp look, but he went on just as calmly, "But we can talk about all that in a while. For now, please just leave the room. Elizabeth," he said and turned his gaze down to hers, meeting her eyes ever so briefly. With relief he saw that rationality and some measure of reason resided there, and he risked putting his other hand on her shoulder once again. Whatever fit of madness had seized her, it had seemingly passed now, for although she was clearly vexed, he believed she was also lucid.

  The pregnant maid scrambled out, passing Polly, who came in with a tray of coffee and a decanter of whiskey. Gideon nodded at her to leave the tray, and Polly hastened to comply and also to make a quick exit.

  "Now, this fussing about does no one any good," he said in what he called his "tranquil" voice.

  Elizabeth narrowed her gaze at him.

  He ran his hands down to where the sleeves ended halfway along her upper arms, applying a light pressure, a comforting pressure. She felt warm, but that was understandable given the effort she had been exerting in looking for these "jewels" of hers. "If I help you, do you think you could stand?"

  "Yes," she said curtly.

  He helped her to rise, until she teetered on the one good foot that, presumably unlike its wounded mate, was adorned with one of her slippers. "If you can stand so a moment, I will bring you a chair."

  In short order he had her ensconced in one of her bedchamber chairs. "Coffee?" he offered, moving to pour a cup.

  "I do not want coffee. I want my jewels returned."

  His hand hovered over the decanter, but he turned away instead. Sometimes alcohol had calmed his mama, but other times it had aggravated her distress. Elizabeth was clearly still angry, though she was calm enough.

  He brought her the coffee. "Try some. Please."

  She accepted it with ill grace, then quickly set it aside without sipping at it. "I think it would behoove you to get that maid in here once more," she said, still clearly agitated, "so we can question what she has done with my things. She left my purse under my sheets, which points toward the maid if nothing else does, I should think."

  "Hmmm" was his only reply.

  Her shoulders heaved, and for a sinking moment he thought it was the beginning of a keening sob. but she only offered a large sigh.

  "It is evident, my lord, that you do not believe I ever possessed any jewelry." she said.

  He wondered if speaking clearly and concisely, as one does to children or dunces, was the way to go on.

  "It is equally evident you have no plans to search for my missing goods." she went on. She pursed her lips and drummed her fingers on the chair arm. "Very well. then. But I tell you. / shall! You will be the most help to me by not interfering with my search."

  "How do you propose to conduct this. uh. search?" he looked pointedly at her skirt, beneath which the injured foot was held aloft awkwardly.

  "The same way I saw the portrait gallery, by using the canes. I will crawl if I have to. but I must have my jewelry back. That is, if it is even still within the confines of the house. Your maid could be burying my belongings in the garden at this very moment, for all I know, or having them traded for money in hand at this Wendell's you spoke of."

  She was calm, and she gave no signs of striking out or tumbling into hysteria—she was plainly intent on believing in her own fantasy. There would be no talking her out of it. not if his own personal history had proved anything to Gideon.

  He picked up her discarded coffee cup and put it on the tray—he would not leave hot liquids where they could hurt her or anyone else who came into the room. "Do what you must." he said quietly, resigned that she would do whatever her bemused disposition dictated she must do. So one small female would turn the house topsy-turvy toward no good purpose: it would not be the first time. "Only please do not disturb my library. I give you my word there are no jewels there, yours or anyone's."

  She gave him a level look, then nodded.

  "I will deliver this tray to the kitchen, and then return." He did not want to ring for a sen ant. for who knew what or who might touch off some volatile spark in Elizabeth's mind and start this whole sorry scene all over again.

  That was all he wanted, of course—peace. Some measure of serenity in the house, this cursed house that echoed yet with his mother's cries and his heartless father's insensitive shouts. All he wanted from Elizabeth was that she become well enough to leave, to go and take all these reminders of his mournful past with her.

  He owed her nothing, Gideon reminded himself as he quietly closed her door—nothing but simple courtesy, and time to heal her physical wound. Once she was well enough to travel, she was his problem no longer. As disturbing as it was to have her here now, their mutual confinement would be mercifully shortlived.

  Soon he would be free of her and her disquieting presence. He ran that thought over and over through his mind, and only vaguely wondered why the thought was less satisfying than it ought to be.

  Later, Elizabeth moved forward through the house in hops that were so small she scarcely seemed to advance at all, yet no matter how small she made the hops, they jarred her infected foot so that she had to grit her teeth against the pain.

  It was bad enough that her body did not want to cooperate with the excrutiatingly slow search she attempted, but neither did her thoughts. While her hands opened every drawer and cupboard she came to, her thoughts kept drifting back to how Lord Greyleigh had treated her. It did not matter one whit that as of late she had been as honest as possible with him; he clearly still thought her a lunatic.

  Of course, whispered her conscience, did she not think the same of him? And on what evidence? From gossip she had heard in the past? That he appeared different in his coloring?

  What evidence did he have of her sanity? Her claims, her word? But what person, mad or sane, would embrace the claim of lunacy? Words were meaningless in this matter; it was actions that spoke so that others might see. How could he believe her to be in her right mind when he had just found her on her bedchamber floor, scrambling around for missing jewels that he had no reason to believe existed? Really, she could laugh at how absurd she must have appeared. That is, she would laugh were it not for the flaming pain that burned up her leg.

  She closed her eyes in weariness, but that just made her dizzy, so she opened them again.

  There were voices ahead, in the dining room. Tiny hop by tiny painful hop, Elizabeth made her way to the open doorway. Lord Greyleigh was there, and at his side stood a common-looking fellow who had neglected to doff his hat. Or perhaps he had just donned it anew, for he shook his head and said to Lord Greyleigh, "Yer cook already see
n I was taken care of. I'll leave yer to yer own meal then, m'lord."

  Beside a spread of news sheets that Lord Greyleigh had obviously been reading before he was interrupted by his caller, the table was set with plates and utensils ready for luncheon. Footmen were just starting to scuttle in and out from the opposite doorway, bearing trays of cold carved beef, cheeses, fruit, and fragrant buns. At least, Elizabeth assumed they were fragrant, but the overall scent of food only served to turn her stomach.

  There was no possibility she could eat, she realized at once. This roiling effect in her stomach was a sure sign that the infection in her heel did not bode well. A chair, she just wanted a chair, to sit for a while, then she would ask some of the footmen to carry her away from all the unwelcome sights and scents that filled the room.

  Lord Greyleigh turned and spied her. "Ah, Elizabeth. Come to join me for luncheon?"

  She nodded, because it was easier than correcting his misas-sumption that she meant to eat. She was grateful when he pulled out a chair for her. He frowned as she made her slow progress to the table, each effort oddly more difficult than the one before it. As she reached the chair and sat down, her ears began to ring. Suddenly there were bright lights dancing before her eyes, and she couldn't see or hear anything for several very long moments.

  "Elizabeth? Elizabeth?" Gideon picked up one of her hands, chafing it between his own. She had gone quite pale of a sudden, and he thought with dawning alarm that perhaps she was going to faint. Again he noticed that she felt warm, too warm.

  She blinked several times, and then slowly focused on his face as her color came rushing back. "I am sorry," she murmured. "I became light-headed for a moment." She gave a little shake of her head, as if to dismiss the moment, then looked as though she wished she had not. She took her hand from his and gave him a peaked smile. "You had a caller?"