“You make me laugh. You looked at me just so, and when you suggested I play that tune for the guests, you very nearly overset me.”
She had noticed? “I shall have to guard myself closer. Everyone is convinced I’m a most staid, ordinary fellow. I am considered one of the safest prospects in London.”
“I have noticed that in you, of course.” She skipped over a molehill and back on to the path, her skirts swinging indecorously. Her plain stockings and stout shoes flashed into his view. “Not the safest prospect, I wouldn’t know that, but you think of yourself as ordinary. You are definitely not ordinary, Marcus. But people treat you with the greatest respect and the kindest consideration. They defer to you.”
He shoved his hands in his breeches’ pockets. “Yes, I know. It’s a bore, but if I tell them not to, they do it more. Or they become embarrassingly close. Overdoing it. I do have friends, of course, but most of them are in the same situation I am.”
She clucked her tongue. “Poor boy!”
So of course he laughed, and she joined in, which eased the situation considerably. Nobody made him laugh as much as Viola. Or sweat, like the time she’d taken the worst-behaved horse in the stables for a morning ride.
She’d explained to his father later that she didn’t realize she’d taken the gelding, mistaking him for another. He only half believed her. Viola had a restless streak, and every so often she had to release it or burst. Or that was how she’d explained it to him after the incident with the horse, one of the few times he’d sought her out. Killing herself was not the answer, he’d told her firmly before walking away.
He’d spent far too much time walking away from her. He would make an effort not to do so any longer. Time to face whatever waited for him here. To claim something for his own, in spite of his responsibilities. If their relationship deepened into friendship, he would enjoy it, but in his heart, he wanted more.
They had reached the gate. He swung it open and waited for her to go through. The land steward’s house was what his father had termed a “comfortable” size. “I’d have enjoyed living in a house like this.”
“What? How can you say that?” She paused in the act of finding her key for the front door. “We have four bedrooms and three servants, no more. How could it compare to what you have?”
“That’s the point.” He halted abruptly. “What was that?” Had that male shout come from inside the house? He laid a hand on her arm. “Go back. Go back now.”
A shot rang from inside the house, and someone yelled.
He didn’t even have his sword. “Where does your father keep his weapons?”
“In a locked case in the study.” Typical of her to keep her head. Thank God.
He pushed her behind him. “Stay out of sight.”
Two men rushed out of the side door and along the path, heading for the copse of trees nearest to the house. Marcus’s first instinct was to give chase, but if he did, he would leave her unprotected, and who knew how many men were inside? He had to let the ruffian go and hope someone remained in the house for him to beat senseless. Anything to assuage the fury seething through him.
“Papa!” she cried, and would have rushed inside, had he not seized her arm and held her back.
“Don’t do that. Wait for me.” They would go in through the side door. Likely he might find a weapon there.
No person stood inside. He spotted the sword, the one Gates always claimed his great-great-grandfather had wielded at the Battle of Marston Moor. Well, it would give him good service now. He wrenched the weapon from its scabbard.
“Keep close,” he told her. With those two men on the loose, he couldn’t risk her making a run for it. He would have to take care of her. He needed to keep his wits about him. Protect her with his life, if need be.
This house was a mile from the main gates and the wall, but anyone could bring a horse in if he knew the different entrances.
Sure enough, the sound of galloping hooves on turf met his ears. He firmed his mouth. The ruffian would not get far, if Marcus had anything to do with it.
Viola might have a wild streak, but it did not usually tend to the stupid, especially in such circumstances. She jerked her head toward the stairs, indicating the way they should go.
They crept up a stair at a time, listening for any response. The house was deadly silent. Where were the servants?
At the top, they heard a groan. She would have pushed past him, but he held her back and headed toward the source of the sound.
In the main parlor, her father lay on the rucked-up and torn carpet, holding his head. He struggled as they entered, revealing his tied hands. They had not bothered to tie his feet. The thick bandage around his ankle would have made the task too difficult. The room was smashed, the furniture tipped over, the ornaments, the lamp on the table, and a shelf of books overturned and broken.
Viola rushed forward and dropped to her knees by her father’s side.
Fear shaded his gray eyes. “You must go,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Get out of here.”
“Is there someone else here?” she asked.
“How many people left?” He used a similar undertone when she spoke.
“Two.”
“Then they’ve gone.” He made to sit up and retched.
Immediately she supported his head. “They hurt you, Papa.” Her voice ached. “Was it thieves?”
Glass from the lamp crunched under Marcus’s feet as he went to the window. “How badly is he hurt?” He could see nothing outside. Everything appeared perfectly normal.
“I’ll recover. Help me to sit.” Before he could go to them, Viola had her hand behind his back and was easing him up.
Marcus hurried to his side and helped, keeping his arm firmly behind Gates’s back. “What happened? Can you tell us?” Already a bruise was forming on his temple.
“Not thieves. They wanted something particular.” He turned his head and met his daughter’s gaze. “They wanted you.”
* * * *
Viola listened to her father, dull shock reverberating through her. “What would they want with me?”
“You are a prize, my dear. A treasure. It is no longer safe for you here.” Her father stopped and closed his eyes. Had they broken his head? He opened his eyes once more. He gripped her arm. “Go to Scarborough.”
The house? What was he talking about? “I can’t leave you, Papa!”
“I heard them when they thought I was still unconscious. They were searching for the papers.”
Marcus spoke to good effect. “Are they still there?”
She glanced up at the fireplace and nodded.
“Get them.”
Casting him a wondering look, she got to her feet and crossed to the fireplace. In a matter of seconds, she had opened the panel, pressed the hidden spring, and opened the inner hidden place. Groping inside, she found the papers and drew them out. Three pieces of paper, all a little the worse for wear.
She gave them to Marcus. He glanced at them, nodded, and shoved them in his pocket. “You will have to show me where to go.”
“You can’t come!” How could he even think it?
“Yes, I can. Either that or you come to London with me. And once we’re there, we will talk.” He shook his head. “Why did you not tell me before? Did my father tell you of recent developments?”
“Yes. You must tell her.” Her father had grasped the sleeve of Marcus’s dark brown riding coat, his hand curved into a claw. “Do not let her out of your sight.”
“I won’t. Who else knows?”
“Of the house? Very few people.”
“Wait here.” Marcus strode to the door and left the room while Viola found some water to bathe her father’s wound. She had cleaned it enough to satisfy herself he was not badly hurt when Marcus returned.
“They went through every room, but your bedroom is more or less intact. Let me carry you there.”
Ignoring the older man’s
protests that he could get there himself, Marcus lifted him. He carefully carried him to his room, laying him on the bed still rumpled from the night before. A few items lay on the floor, but the ruffians had not had time to search too closely.
Although she was in control of herself, Viola’s heart beat faster and tears pricked her eyes, more from shock than anything else. She sat on the bed while Marcus paced the room. “Where are your servants?”
“Only two live in. Cook has gone to market and McGregor went to the house to help with the guests. I gave him permission to remain there overnight if Mrs. Lancaster wished it.” He closed his eyes. “My head is spinning.”
Marcus touched her arm. “Come. I will send someone to you.”
“What?” Bewildered, she turned her attention to him. “What are you talking about? I can’t leave my father!”
“You must.” Both men spoke at once.
Marcus took up the thread. “You heard your father. The men wanted you. I will take you to Scarborough today and I will stay there with you until we are certain you are safe.” He appeared as if he would say something else, but he must have changed his mind. He closed his mouth with a snap.
“Papa, how can you think I would leave?”
Tears filmed his eyes. She had never seen him weep before. Never wanted to see it again. “My dear, it’s the only way to keep both of us safe. They want you, and they will stop at nothing to get you. If you stay here, they will kill me to get to you.”
“What?” She shook her head to get rid of the delusions pouring into her ears. “But what will that do for them?”
“The papers…” He coughed and then leaned back against the pillows.
“They’re just fairy tales, a foolish story.”
“They’re not stories; they are real. Now do you understand?”
“I do,” Marcus said.
She had never seen Marcus look like he did now. Every part of him was poised for action, the expression in his eyes hard and determined. Did she know him at all? “He is right, Viola. Come. We’ll talk on the way. Can you run?”
She nodded.
“No,” her father said. “It’s not safe. Ride for the house. My horse is in the stable at the back. Take him.”
Marcus did not argue. He came around the bed and held one hand to her.
Real? Those papers were real? Someone wanted her dead?
When she gazed into Marcus’s face she saw trust there. She needed help, no doubt about it. With only a little hesitation, she took his hand.
Chapter 6
Back at the main house, Marcus curved his arm around Viola’s waist and hustled her into the side hall. It seemed an age since they were last there. He had picked up her bag from where he’d dropped it outside, and they’d run all the way. Marcus had kept his body between her and the hedges, leading her away from the path and over the green parkland between her house and his. Protecting her.
“Watch her,” he said to Tranmere. “Guard her with your life.” Catching the footman’s startled attention, he raised a finger. “Mark me, Tranmere. With your life.”
“My lord,” Tranmere said. His face was as grim as Viola had ever seen it.
When Marcus had gone, taking the stairs three at a time, Tranmere turned to her. “What have you done?” he said, his voice laced with wariness.
Viola slumped into the hard hall chair. “Nothing. I did nothing. Someone attacked my father, Tranmere. He’s hurt, but not badly, or I’d have stayed with him. Marcus is taking me away.” She looked up. “Will you go to him?”
Tranmere nodded. “As soon as I can. I won’t let anything happen to him.” Even without further explanation, he proved his worth.
Wearily she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.
In a few moments, Marcus returned. “I’ve ordered two horses saddled. Do you have everything you need in that bag?”
“Yes.” She looked up and met his clear gaze. “But no riding habit.”
He glanced at her gown. “If I found one of my sisters’ habits it would take you ten minutes to get it on, would it not?” She nodded. However fast she changed, she could not do it faster. All that unhooking and unpinning did not take too long. However, the rehooking and repinning, especially of an outfit she was not accustomed to, would easily take longer than ten minutes. “We’ll take a gig,” he said and disappeared again.
A gig? But he did not joke. Just as the clock was striking eight, the sound of rumbling wheels came from outside, and he yelled, “Come out and bring the bag!”
He was not driving a gig, but a fragile-seeming vehicle she doubted would last between here and Scarborough. He’d had two mismatched but good-looking horses put to, or he’d done it himself. She wouldn’t put anything past him in his current mood. She had never known the man she considered as staid and careful behave this way.
Febrile excitement positively radiated from him as he put down a hand to help her up, while Tranmere gave her a boost from below. Anyone would think she was…royalty.
Tranmere threw her bag into the back, Marcus whipped up the horses, and they were off.
Viola did not speak until they reached the main road. Marcus glanced at her, and then briefly shot his attention to where she clutched the rail as hard as she could. Her nails were digging into her palm, but better that than have him jolt her from this thing.
“It’s safe.” He turned a corner so fast the vehicle nearly went on to two wheels. “It’s my new phaeton. I had it brought up from town, thought I’d tool it around the countryside. It’s made from the best materials, to be as light as possible. I ordered it in a moment of madness, and thank goodness I did. My brothers called me staid, so I thought I would outdo them in sporting vehicles. The horses are reliable and I can outstrip most vehicles on the road with it.”
She still did not feel safe. “I see,” she said faintly.
“Don’t worry.” He flashed one of his sudden smiles. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Events raced through her mind. “You know about all this?”
“What?” The horses had settled into a brisk trot. “The certificates? The letter?”
“Yes, that.”
He jerked a nod. “Wait until we’re past the village and I’ll tell you. We are stopping for no one. If they try to hold us up, we’re going to shoot them.” He handed her a weapon, a hefty pistol, but he didn’t ask her if she could use it. He already knew the answer.
Silence reigned until they had left the village of Haxby behind them. People stopped to stare at the vehicle that whipped past, but Marcus acknowledged none of them. Keeping her head down, Viola prayed none of them recognized her. Apart from any other consideration, she was sitting in a vehicle alone with a man she was not related to. Enough to ruin her if word got around.
Marcus did not seem in the least perturbed, although he’d complained to her about women trying to trap him. He’d put her in the situation where she could do precisely that. It might appear a small consideration, but not to someone who lived in the district.
Half a mile on, they were on the clear road to Scarborough. Marcus sighed and spoke for the first time. “The certificates are real. I have them in my pocket. But you, my dear, are the prize.”
A sense of betrayal filled her. He knew? Had he known when he kissed her in the music room? “How long have you known?”
“A day.” His mouth flattened. “Your father and mine decided the fewer people who knew, the better. That included me.”
Relief replaced her previous mood. So he’d kissed her before he knew. “You believe it?”
“Of course.” He glanced at her.
“Keep your eyes on the road.”
With a ghost of a smile, he obeyed her. “In the last few months, my cousins and I have discovered the truth. There are others like you, my dear, and they are desperate to get hold of you.”
“Why?” Her recalcitrant mind was still finding the concept difficult. W
hat she’d imagined to be a fairy tale was real. Her father had told her the secret when she’d turned eighteen. So she knew she wasn’t her father’s biological daughter. It didn’t make much difference to her. She was loved and secure in her family.
He flicked her another glance. She wished he wouldn’t. This fragile vehicle made her nervous.
“Take my word for it. You look very much like your father. The same narrow face, dark eyes, and hair. Once they have you, they can do what they want.”
“What will they do? And who are ‘they?’”
“The Dankworths,” he said, lines of strain around his mouth. “And they will probably force your marriage to one. They want the next Stuart heir.”
That was the first time either of them had said the word “Stuart” aloud. The sound made reality from the tattered yellowed pieces of paper snugly tucked into Marcus’s pocket.
“I’m a Stuart,” she said dully.
“Tell me what you know. Then I’ll tell you about the Dankworths.”
The road was straight and true, and if he kept to the center, he avoided the worst of the ruts. By now Marcus had satisfied Viola he was an excellent whip, but she still kept a firm hold on the hand rail.
“My mother was Italian, but she was blond, not like me. My father fell in love with her when he accompanied your father on the Grand Tour. As far as I knew, I was born there, and they brought me home.”
“Humph. And she died shortly thereafter.”
“Yes. When I was barely a year old. She died in childbirth.”
“Presumably Rome is where Maria gave the child to your parents.” His voice tightened. “My father never told me until yesterday. Even recently, when—” He broke off and negotiated a tricky part of the road where someone in a heavy vehicle had driven deep ruts right across the surface.
Viola suspected that was merely an excuse, considering how well he drove.
“Let us start at the beginning. The Dankworths.”
A lock of her hair came loose, but she merely shoved it behind her ear. Apparently distracted by her movement, he glanced at her, but turned his attention back to the road. “The Dankworths,” he repeated. “That is the name of the family of the Duke of Northwich. Do you know of him?”
Dilemma in Yellow Silk (Emperors of London) Page 7
