The Misfit Marquess

by Teresa DesJardien

  Then Mama had grown worse, and Papa had died, and Gideon had become the marquess. Then how was he to know who was his friend and who but a hanger-on? It had been easier for Gideon to reject everyone, to turn his energy to helping others in a way that no one had ever tried with him.

  "You are frowning," Elizabeth said at his side.

  "Am I? I suppose it is because I have had a thought that I do not think you will like."

  She lifted that eyebrow again in inquiry, a pensive set to her mouth.

  "That pearl ring, and your signet ring, and anything else we may find?" he began.

  "Yes." She sounded doubtful.

  "I think you should give them to me, to keep them for you until you are ready to have them pawned. I have a drawer in my desk that can be locked." She started to shake her head. "They have already been stolen once," he reminded her.

  She gave him a sideways glance. "At least now you believe I had jewelry to begin with."

  He nodded. He believed it. He just was not sure if she was the one who was placing them in odd places.

  "To show my good will," he said, reaching into his coat pocket, "here is another piece I assume belongs to you." He handed her the hair comb.

  "Oh, yes!" she cried, obviously pleased. She turned the comb over, inspecting it, then turned sparkling eyes on him. "It has a twin to match it. Did you find that?"

  "No. That was found on one of my hounds, set in the scruff of his neck."

  "Your hound?" Elizabeth echoed, and there was such a wealth of surprise and bewilderment in her gaze as well as her outcry, that Gideon could almost be persuaded she was blameless of the comb's having been placed upon the dog.

  "My lord?" The two footmen came from the doorway, Sam holding something pinched between two fingers. "We din't find nothin', except these."

  At first it looked as though he extended his hand with nothing in it, but then the sunlight glinted off the long, thin red hairs caught between his thumb and forefinger.

  "The red-haired woman!" Elizabeth pronounced gleefully. "Proof!"

  "These hairs were caught on a nail. Must've hurt when they was yanked out," Sam said.

  "Well, well," Gideon said, scratching behind his ear, feeling curiously lighthearted. Perhaps a red-haired wanderer had indeed been in the passageways, and logically, also in the house. It would seem he owed Elizabeth an apology—certainly someone had been in his home before Elizabeth ever arrived, so adding the two facts together made for fairly convincing evidence that, at least in this matter, Elizabeth was neither delusional nor engaged in some strange sport.

  Was it possible that she did not, indeed, have anything to do with placing the jewelry that was being found about the house? Indeed, how could she have walked all the way out of the house to where the hounds were kept in their pen? Gideon gazed at her, seeing triumphant satisfaction in the gaze she returned, just before she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him in obvious delight.

  Almost as soon as her arms were around his neck, she went abruptly still, even catching her breath. She pushed away from him, flushing a dull, dark red. "Excuse me! I cannot imagine what came over me," she murmured, looking down to the hair comb that seemingly had become utterly fascinating.

  Gideon felt an answering flush creep up his own features, though not from embarrassment, even if the moment had taken place in front of the servants. He wanted her to hug him all over again, to leave her arms about his neck, to bring her lips to meet his. Impossible! he scolded himself, while yet another side wondered why impossible?

  If nothing else, he wanted the sunny, triumphant smile to come back to her mouth, to see the happy glow of satisfaction in her eyes. He did not want to feel this sense of rejection that came the moment she had so quickly pulled away from him.

  Heaven knew, it was not the first time a woman had turned away from him, flustered by the peculiarity of his hair and eyes, those features that lent themselves to rumors that his nature matched his odd appearance. But surely Elizabeth had long since grown accustomed to his looks? He did not want her withdrawal, her removal from this new thing he had discovered between them, this circle of friendship they could foster. He did not want any awkwardness between them.

  The footmen were staring, obviously confused by the sudden tension in the air. Gideon stood, dusting absently at his clothing. "You two will have to secure that door," he said, covering his distress with words. "Nail it shut for now, and I will hire a man to come and put a lock on it. Our 'ghost' will haunt our halls no more, I think."

  The servants looked pleased, and Gideon forced himself to turn and look again at Elizabeth, to face once more the uneasiness that had sprung up between them. "Well, my dear lady," he said, crossing his arms because he could not think what else to do, "am I to have your jewels, to protect them even though our visitor ought come to call no more?"

  "Yes, I suppose it is wise. Thank you," she said, conceding the point. She removed her rings, including the signet ring, and handed them and the comb up to him. "That you also found the comb gives me hope that the rest of my things are yet to be found about the house," she said, not quite meeting his gaze.

  "Will you make me up a list?" he asked as he slipped the objects in his pocket.

  "Gladly, yes, my lord."

  "Gideon," he reminded her, then added, "Good!" He stepped back and waved the footmen forward. "Help the lady, men," he said, then turned his back and hurried away, knowing he was fleeing the awkward moment, knowing he was being a coward. But, God save him, he did not think he could bear to carry Elizabeth in his arms and feel anew her withdrawal.

  Late that night, Gideon looked around the interior of his club and shuddered. Something had changed. Something had opened his eyes.

  Where once he had liked the exclusivity of Elly's, where once he had liked the serious play, now he saw that the other gamesters were serious, sober types. They ought to be here out of sport, enjoyment, the need to connect with other human beings. But they had their stiff drinks at their elbows, their cards before their eyes, their minds fixed on odds and opportunities to best the other men's cards. There was no conviviality, no stirring of camaraderie.

  They were strangers, all, come together to play without playfulness, to try to win affordable amounts that could not change their lives for good or ill, to waste time with people who demanded nothing of them, not even friendship.

  A cold sweat crept across Gideon's skin, and he pushed back his chair with a loud scrape. "Are you leaving, my lord?" the club employee behind the table asked, prepared to pay him or record his winnings in the club book against play on another night.

  "Yes. Yes, I am leaving," Gideon said, knowing he meant forever. He stood, moving away from the table with unsteady steps.

  "Your purse, my lord?" the man called after him.

  "Keep it. A vail for you," Gideon said, not even bothering to turn around.

  "Thank you, my lord!" the man cried in happy surprise, the words just reaching Gideon as he gathered his hat and cane. Without looking back, Gideon stepped out into the cool night air.

  Gideon's head cleared a little, and he could even laugh a bit at his sudden revelation. He supposed the impression had been a long time coming, but something had finally made him cease ignoring the obvious this night.

  "Something" was Elizabeth, of course. But why?

  Because she had changed him, by reminding him the world held such things as friendship. That there was more to a day than duty and responsibility. There was laughing for no better reason than a need to laugh. But look how rusty he had become; it had taken him nigh on to four hours before the effects of laughter and camaraderie had revealed to him that Elly's could no longer meet his needs.

  His needs! He had suppressed his own needs and desires for so long that now his head literally reeled from the effect of one tiny concession to himself. He closed his eyes, feeling a pressure in his chest that was not quite a pain, and wondered why this tiny little change left him feeling nearly ill. He was cheeky to w
onder at Elizabeth's mental stability, when his own was so obviously askew. Still, the rockiness he felt, the almost pain, the light-headedness, all felt good in a weirdly enjoyable way.

  He had given up his club, and got—what? Nothing, really, but all the same he felt curiously light on the horse's back as he rode toward home.

  Gideon glanced at Frick's silver salver the next morning and saw as expected that not enough time had passed for him to have received a chess reply from either brother, and he walked on past. Only to come to a sudden halt and retrace his steps. He picked up the outgoing letter written in Elizabeth's hand. The letter was addressed to Lady Sees and sealed with a wafer.

  Still giddy from last night's quitting of his club—perhaps irrationally, he admitted to himself with a lopsided grin—he felt boldly audacious. With almost no pang from his conscience, he carried the letter in to the breakfast table. He was disappointed not to find Elizabeth there, and retreated at once, heading for the stairs.

  She had taken a morning tray in her room, he discovered when she bid him enter.

  "Any callers in the night?" he asked as she set the tray aside, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin.

  "None, I am pleased to report." She smiled at him, and Gideon felt his heart take an extra beat.

  "How is your heel today?"

  "Very good. It is beginning to itch, a healthy sign."

  "Do not scratch it."

  "I shan't, but the temptation is terribly strong." She pointed to the missive in his hand. "Did you receive a letter?"

  "It is yours. One you are sending," he said as he took a seat next to her bed.

  She lifted her eyebrows, a gesture he was coming to recognize as mild disapproval.

  "I have not read it," he assured her. "But I was hoping you would tell me what it says, since you are writing to one of my neighbors."

  "I have been presumptuous," Elizabeth surprised him by saying.

  "How is this?"

  "I evoked your name only to remind Lady Sees that I am your 'unusual' guest. And I used a wafer rather than your wax and seal, please note, but all the same I will understand if you wish me not to send this letter. I should have thought to consult with you first, my lord."

  He stared at her blush, fascinated by her chagrin and wondering what she had done. "Call me Gideon. And how can I object," he said, "if I do not know the contents of the letter?"

  "True." Her mouth turned up at one corner. "You know Simons, the footman who is missing several fingers?"

  "Of course."

  "He told me yesterday afternoon that he has a sister. She has been unable to find work, because she was released from her last employment without references. It was not her fault, Simons assured me, because the young master of the house was, well, he did not act appropriately, let us say. I agreed to recommend Simons's sister to Lady Sees, in hopes that there was a need for a new maid in her household, or if she knew of one nearby."

  "Curious that Simons did not speak to me," Gideon said, even though he did not really find it curious at all. Elizabeth was . . . approachable, and in a way that the master of Greyleigh Manor presumably could not be. It was one thing for Gideon to offer benevolence, and another for a servant to come to him and request it.

  "I suppose he considered it a matter among females," Elizabeth offered. "Do you mind too much?"

  "That you sought to obtain work for the girl? Not at all. Shall I add my signature to this letter, to lend it my approval?"

  "Would you?" Elizabeth said, her brown eyes lighting with pleasure. "I told Simons I would have little or no influence with Lady Sees, but I thought it better than not trying at all."

  "I will gladly sign it," he said, slipping the letter in his pocket until he could obtain pen and ink. "Simons is a good man, and I have to think his sister must be, too."

  "Thank you."

  Gideon inclined his head, acknowledging her thanks. "I have come with news for you."

  "News?" The light left her eyes, and her features took on a wary cast, startling him. What did she have to fear?

  "Only that I thought about it last night and realized that we must not leave the retrieval of your jewels to happenstance. I have instructed all the servants to actively search for your jewels. Under mattresses, in flowerpots, that manner of thing."

  "Oh," she said, the wariness slowly receding. "Thank you, very much."

  "Were they your mother's jewels?" he asked, because that was not a question that invaded her privacy too deeply.

  "Yes," she said, but as he had expected, she did not elaborate.

  "I understand that you will be seeing the modiste at noon today."

  "That is what the maid told me when she brought my tray."

  "Good. Well, then." He stood. "I suppose I must get back to matters of the estate. I will see that your missive is delivered today."

  'Thank you, my lord. Gideon" she corrected herself, and there was that smile again, the one that made his heart take a double beat.

  He bowed and let himself out, and when he pulled a quill and ink from the drawer of the table where Frick kept the salver, Gideon noticed his hands shook ever so slightly. Just from being near her. Just from having her smile at him.

  He did not break the wafer, instead signing "I concur" and his name on the folded exterior of the missive, which he then placed next to the salver.

  He stood upright and stared without quite seeing the letter Elizabeth had written. It was presumptuous of her to write to Lady Sees from the sanctuary of his home, in effect using his name, but that was not what bothered him. She had been doing someone a favor and had meant absolutely no harm.

  What bothered him was the fact that he had not been approached by Simons. He, Gideon, the granter of kindnesses, the master of noblesse oblige, had been ignored in favor of a nobody, a nameless waif of a girl who would be gone in a week or so, who had no authority whatsoever.

  And he was glad. Delighted, even, that someone else had been asked to sit and pen a letter, to grant a favor, to seek a boon. When had that last happened? Even when his father had been alive, it had been to Gideon that the servants had brought their concerns, because he might be expected to do something about them, whereas his father seldom could be bothered with the petty issues of running a household, except to roar and rampage.

  Yet Elizabeth, in the space of a week, had somehow taken on the authority of one who could help, who brought order instead of more chaos. And this from the woman who had been put in an asylum because of a nervous disposition! Although, Gideon had to admit, short of odd shifts of emotion—such as the wariness that had come over her during their conversation five minutes ago—she was solid and sane enough in her manners that even Gideon sometimes forgot to coddle her nervous nature.

  That is when it struck him, a brilliant idea. Elizabeth clearly had nowhere to go. These jewels she craved to have returned to her obviously were meant to pay her way alone in this world, now that presumably a lover had left her to fend for herself. If she had no particular place to be, why not be here?

  Why not become his housekeeper? Heaven knew the house could use a woman's touch, and Elizabeth clearly possessed a way with servants. The idea of shifting the everyday, common concerns onto someone else's shoulders beckoned enticingly, and Elizabeth would have a roof over her head and meals to eat for her trouble. Pay, too—of course he would pay her a stipend.

  And she would be here, stay here, be near me whispered a thought in his brain.

  But what of her infirmity? came another whisper. What if, as months or years passed, her mind weakened?

  Gideon frowned, knowing he could never send her, nor anyone, to an asylum. Which meant she would be yet another burden to the household. Perhaps the idea was not so suitable after all... it had been selfishness speaking, wanting to keep this newly found friend near him.

  No, he could not have the responsibility for another madwoman on his hands, he simply could not. It would drive him over the edge into madness himself, once and in truth, to
see Elizabeth become like his mama. God help him, he could not bear to see that, not with Elizabeth. This idea of making Elizabeth into his housekeeper was one best forgot.

  Like all such ideas, however, it was much easier to say nay than to forget it, as Gideon discovered. All day long, he could not turn off his mind, could not find a resolution that would save both Elizabeth and his own soul.

  Chapter 16

  For the rest of the afternoon, Elizabeth watched out the window as clouds piled in the sky, creating a gloom that only deepened with nightfall. When at dusk rain began to fall and the shutters were closed against the wet breezes, even the usual branches of candles at the dining table did not penetrate the shadows. Elizabeth found herself squinting down the table, wondering if that dim silver lump might be the salt salver. Not that she particularly wanted to salt her meal, even though everything tasted bland for some reason tonight. A depressing effect of the weather, which was blustery and rainy, no doubt. Gideon must feel the effect, too, for he was unusually quiet at the head of the table, just to the right of where Elizabeth sat pushing her meal about her plate with her fork.

  Perhaps the weather also explained why she felt disheartened tonight as well. Although, to be truthful, she knew the real reason. It was not that she'd had to stand too long on one leg as the modiste had taken her measurements and agreed to make up three gowns, one in grey and two in lavender. It was not that the gowns were to be made up in these shades of half mourning to suit Elizabeth's new life at pretending to be a widow. The real reason was that Elizabeth knew her heel was mending.

  She could leave now, she realized. Even though it was a week shy of the healing time the doctor had allowed, Elizabeth knew that she could travel if she wished to.

  Only she did not wish to.

  She supposed she was a coward. Part of her did not want to face the future that awaited her, lonely and isolated from everyone and everything she had ever known. She knew she would spend her days waiting for the most recent news sheets, scouring the social page for the announcement of her sister's wedding. Only then could she hope to go home, or at least start anew.