"And he rode off? Just like that?" demanded Alexander St. Ives, the Viscount of St. Ives, his dark blue eyes twinkling with amusement as he studied the earl's stern expression. "I wish I might have been there to see it."
"No, you don't," Marcus answered, grimacing as he raised his snifter of golden brandy to his lips. "When the damned fool went galloping off without so much as a by-your-leave, he left me to deal with a crowd of gawking gossipmongers and one very hysterical chit. Can't say as I appreciated it."
"Only one?" St. Ives arched an eyebrow mockingly.
"Miss Portham remained composed," Marcus replied, smiling at the memory of the efficient way she'd bustled Julia home. "In fact, had it not been for her cool presence of mind, the whole thing would have certainly ended in scandal."
A sardonic smile spread across St. Ives's tanned features. "Of course," he drawled mockingly. "How foolish of me to think The Golden Icicle would thaw enough to show genuine emotion."
The laughter died in Marcus's eyes at the derisive comment. Although he'd been the one to first call her that, he found he was suddenly loath to hear anyone, even an old friend like Alex, refer to her with such a marked lack of respect. Setting his glass down, he fixed Alex with a hard look.
"I will thank you, my lord, not to speak of Miss Portham in that manner," he said coldly. "She is a very kind lady, and I will not have her disparaged."
Alex's eyes widened at the note of deadly warning in Marcus's husky voice. "I meant no disrespect, I assure you," he said, taking care to hide his surprise at Colford's championing of the icy blonde. "Miss Portham is one of my wife's dearest friends, and I would never think of saying anything to her detriment"
Marcus relaxed slightly, realizing he had overreacted to the viscount's teasing words. "I am aware of that," he said, picking up his glass and staring at the amber liquid. "I didn't mean to snap at you like that. I suppose it is just because I am feeling a trifle guilty."
"Guilty?" Alex was intrigued. Last night Pip had mentioned she thought something was brewing between the two, but he'd dismissed the suggestion with an amused laugh. Now he wasn't so certain, and he had to admit 'twas an intriguing possibility.
Marcus traced the gilded rim of his snifter with the tip of his finger. "I'm the one who fastened that name to her, and merely because she rejected my advances . . . as rightly she should have done. I doubt she will ever forgive me." And he took a deep swallow of the fiery liquor.
Alex watched him in silence, wondering how much he could reveal of Miss Portham's past without violating his wife's confidence. "Phillipa assures me Miss Portham's true nature is as warm and generous as her own," he began, deciding it was as close to the truth as he dared get for the moment. "And given that, I think we may safely assume she has already forgiven that young man for his indiscreet actions and even more indiscreet words."
"Perhaps." Marcus winced as he remembered the remark he'd made about frostbite a few nights earlier. "Not that I suppose it matters. Now that Toby is no longer mooning after Miss Dolitan, there is no reason to assume we will be seeing so much of each other."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Alex said, thinking of Pip's plans for a ball. "In the meanwhile, are you certain it is truly ended between the two of them? Young lovers often quarrel and part. 'Tis considered de rigueur, or so I am told."
That brought Marcus's brows together in a frown. "Fairly certain," he said, recalling the vehemence in Toby's voice as he denounced his former ladylove. "He called her a silly chit, and vowed to have no more to do with her."
"That is no true indication of a man's feelings," Alex replied with a laugh, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in his chair. "I recall saying the same thing about Phillipa, and look at me now."
"An appalling sight, I agree.' Marcus smiled at the happiness evident on his friend's face. "But in this case I think we can rule out a similar happy ending. The last I saw of Toby, he was holed up in his room and muttering something about Saint George."
"The dragon slayer?" Alex looked puzzled.
Marcus nodded. "He seems obsessed with the creature of late," he said with a low chuckle, "and I have decided I am better off not knowing why."
"Perhaps he has decided to become a knight?" Alex suggested, his dark blue eyes gleaming with laughter.
"Perhaps, and so long as he doesn't take to jousting with the servants, I've no objections." Marcus dismissed the matter with an indifferent shrug. "Now, enough of Toby; I have something else I need to discuss with you. Have you thought of what you are going to say at the debates?"
"Of course."
"Well?" Marcus demanded when he didn't elaborate.
Alex gave him a lazy smile. "Do you honestly think I mean to tell you my plans so that you can prepare a counter-strategy?" he drawled with evident amusement. "You forget I spent half my life in the military, and if I learned nothing else in all those years, it was not to reveal my intentions to the enemy. You shall hear my thoughts on the Trade Act on Thursday, my lord, and not a moment before. By the by, what are you going to say?"
Marcus leaned back in his chair and gave Alex a challenging look. "Go to the devil, my lord," he said, most cordially.
Three days later, Belle was in her rooms preparing for her visit to the school when Georgians came stalking in, her lips pursed in annoyance.
"You must do something, Belle," she announced as she took her seat. "I refuse to endure this torture another moment!"
Belle gave a weary sigh, her eyes closing as she pinched the bridge of her nose. The last few days had been sheer hell for everyone, and the last thing she needed was one of Georgiana's scenes. She cast about in her mind for whatever might have overset her cousin, and decided she must be complaining about Julia's recent antics.
"I am sorry if Julia's behavior is distressing you, Cousin," she said icily, seizing upon the first explanation that came to mind. "But as you yourself told me, she is only sulking. It will pass."
Georgiana's expression grew even more sour. "Goose!" she accused impatiently. "You must know I'm not talking about Julia! I am talking about my ankle."
"Your ankle?"
"It has been throbbing all afternoon," Georgiana said, seeming surprisingly pleased about the matter. "Sharp pains like needle jabs, and deep, dull aches like the ague. It's never done that before, and I can only assume some dreadful tragedy is about to befall us all. That is what you must do something about."
Belle opened her mouth to administer a sharp setdown, and then closed it with a dispirited sigh. It would do no good, and in any case, she recalled hearing that it was sometimes best to humor the mad. "What would you suggest I do?" she asked, striving for a calm she was far from feeling.
"How am I to know?" Georgiana responded with a scowl. "I predict calamities; the very least you might do is prevent them."
"Very well, Georgiana, I shall do my best," Belle replied quietly, the headache that had been plaguing her off and on all day returning with a vengeance. She knew from experience that if she didn't rest, it would blossom into a full-blown migraine by day's end. Unfortunately Mrs. Langston and the children were expecting her, and she wasn't about to disappoint them because of a mere headache.
"See that you do." Georgiana's tone was less sharp now that she'd had her way. "We've already suffered one unhappiness this week, and I'd as lief not endure another."
"Yes, Georgiana."
The meek tones brought a frown to Georgiana's face. Had it been anyone other than Belle, she would have accused her of sarcasm, but she doubted her self-contained cousin would ever stoop to such common behavior. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she studied Belle's face, noticing for the first time the marks of pain in her strained features.
"I say, Belle, ain't feeling sick, are you? You look positively out of curl to me."
The rather apt phrase brought a slight smile to Belle's lips as she rose to her feet. "I'm fine," she assured Georgiana. "It is only that I have a slight headache."
"Ah." G
eorgiana gave a wise nod. "Mayhap you have inherited my ability," she said, not certain if she cared for the idea.
"Or mayhap it is the weather," Belle returned, trying not to shudder. "It has been uncommonly hot these past few weeks."
"Yes, that is so." Georgiana brightened, deciding inclement weather was better than the possibility of sharing her power. "Mind you lie down this afternoon so that you'll be rested for the viscountess's dinner party."
The thought of Pip's first official function as the Viscountess St. Ives was almost enough to chase away the steadily increasing pain. She'd already had the small tea, of course, but that hardly counted. "I'll rest when I return from visiting," Belle promised, tugging on her yellow gloves as she strode to the door. "What will you and Julia be doing?"
"Shopping," Georgiana responded with a grimace. "The little minx has evidently decided Bond Street is the perfect panacea for a broken heart. You'll have to have a word with her before she drives that cold-eyed brother of hers onto the rocks."
Considering how plump Simon's pockets were, Belle considered that an unlikely event. Nevertheless, she did promise to speak to Julia, and her expression was thoughtful as she made her way down the stairs. Julia's behavior had been rather odd of late, she mused, nodding absentmindedly to Gibson as he held the door for her. One moment she would be as happy and carefree as a child, and in the next she would be weepy and teary-eyed. It made no sense, and she wished she knew what to do.
The footman standing attentively was new to her, but as she recalled Gibson muttering something about taking on new staff, she dismissed the matter with a shrug. She glanced up at the carriage box, more from reflex than anything, and started to climb into the carriage. Her foot was on the first step when she suddenly froze, her eyes darting back to the hunched figure in the many-caped coat.
"You're not Jackson," she said, her eyebrows drawing together in a frown. "Who are you?"
The man's shoulders twitched, but he didn't turn around. "Cashton, miss," he said in a gravelly whisper. "Jackson's . . . er . . . sick."
"Sick?" Belle was torn between suspicion and concern. "Why wasn't I informed? Where is he? What is going on here?"
"I warned him this wouldn't be easy," the coachman said, his voice sounding oddly familiar to her. "He never listens."
"Who never listens?" Belle began backing away from the carriage, her heart pounding with trepidation. The footman and another man she hadn't noticed before crowded behind her, sealing off her one avenue of escape.
"Get in the carriage, Miss Dolitan," the man dressed as a footman said, closing his hand around her elbow and urging her forward. "We mean you no harm."
Belle was too frightened to notice the man's mistake. Instead she began struggling, wriggling frantically in a desperate effort to gain her freedom. She managed to tear her arm free, and struck her assailant in the face with her fist. He released her with a curse, his gloved hand cupping his streaming nose. She opened her mouth to scream, but before she could utter a syllable, another hand was clapped roughly over her mouth and she was dragged backward.
Acting on impulse, she sank her teeth into the hand, holding on until she tasted blood. Once more she was free, but before she could do more than draw a shaky breath, there was a rush of air by her ear. She tried to avert her head, but it was too late, and the world exploded with bright light and pain, catapulting her into darkness as she slumped in her captor's arms.
Six
"B last and hell!" Marcus exclaimed, throwing down his pen in disgust. "Is there no end to this wretched tangle?"
"Certainly, my lord." Johns, Marcus's secretary for the past three years, replied in his pedantic manner, pushing his wire-rimmed spectacles back on his peaked nose as he studied his own list of figures. "In fact, I estimate that if you manage to keep current with the interest, you should have the estate free of debt in less than five years."
Marcus clenched his jaw, holding back an oath that would doubtlessly have made Johns swoon with horror. "Unfortunately I don't have five years," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with a heavy sigh. He and his secretary had been laboring over the accounts since luncheon, and never had the situation seemed more bleak. He'd been steadily whittling away at the mountain of debt he'd inherited, and still there was no end in sight.
"There must be some arrangement we can make," Johns said tentatively, although, like his master, he thought it unlikely. "The tradesmen have been most reasonable, and I am sure, with a bit of persuasion, they could be made to come about. You are the earl of Colford, after all, and they ought to be grateful for your custom."
"Gratitude won't fill their children's empty bellies," Marcus returned bluntly, pushing aside his weariness and picking up his pen again. "And in any event, that isn't our main problem. The tradesmen I might be able to come to terms with, but those to whom my father owed gaming debts are beginning to push for their money. If I can't find a way to pay them, I may have no choice but to sell the estate."
Johns nervously cleared his throat. "I don't believe that is possible, your lordship," he began, shuffling his papers. "According to the laws of primogeniture—"
"You needn't quote the law to me, Johns!" Marcus snapped, his gray eyes icy with fury. "I am painfully aware of what I can and cannot do with an entailed estate. But I don't see that in the end it will make one whit of difference. If I don't sell Colford to settle the debts, it will be seized by the crown for payment of those debts. The end result will be the same, but at least if we do it my way, I shall have some sense of honor . . . whatever consolation that might be," he added with a bitter smile.
Johns seemed at a loss for words, knowing his grim-faced employer was right. "There is another alternative," he began after a troubled pause. "I have hesitated mentioning it until now, but if things are so desperate, perhaps you—"
"If you are referring to a marriage of convenience, I've already thought of it," Marcus interrupted impatiently, thinking of Lady Bingington. In between his duties at Parliament and dealing with Toby's creative nonsense, he'd continued courting Charlotte, with mixed results. He was fairly certain she guessed his intentions, but he had no idea how she felt about it. She hadn't gone out of her way to encourage him, but neither had she actively discouraged him. It was as if she hadn't yet made up her mind, and he wondered how long he could allow the situation to continue unresolved. In the event she did refuse his suit, he would need time to begin courting another widow, or even a rich Cit, if worst came to worst.
"Yes, I've heard whispers you have been courting Miss Portham, and I must say I applaud your good sense," Johns said with a satisfied nod. "Rich as can be, and a beauty in the bargain. You could do far worse for Colford, I can tell you."
"Miss Portham?" Marcus glowered at the smaller man. "I was referring to the duchess of Bingington."
"A lovely lady, but not so well heeled as Miss Portham," Johns said, waving his delicate hand in dismissal. "I think you must reconsider, my lord, and offer your title to Miss Portham instead. She is but a lesser member of the gentry, and I daresay she would be more than willing to pay for the privilege of being called Lady Colford."
For a moment the image of Belle as his countess tantalized Marcus, but he dismissed it with an angry scowl. He and The Golden Icicle may have overcome some of their antipathy, but he wasn't fool enough to think she would accept his suit. She'd been on the Marriage Mart for years, and had she meant to sell herself for a coronet, she could have done so long ago. Besides, he admitted reluctantly, he admired her too much to offer for her when he did not love her.
"I am not interested in Miss Portham," he said, sending his secretary a warning glare. "We will not discuss her again."
Johns recognized the cold look his employer was giving him and began gathering up his papers. "Very well, my lord," he said, his prim mouth held in a manner that conveyed his disapproval. "Will there by anything else?"
"Yes, I want you to send one of the footmen to the jeweler's with the last of the diamonds
. They ought to fetch enough to placate my father's gaming cronies for the moment."
"The diamonds!" Johns paled in horror. "But, sir, they have been in your mother's family for over seven generations! How can you even consider selling them?"
Marcus's gray eyes iced over with pain. "Because I have no choice," he said tersely, banishing to the back of his mind the memory of his sweet mother dripping in the fabulous jewels. "Just see to it, damn it."
"Yes, my lord," Johns said with a discouraged sigh before slipping silently from the room.
After the door closed behind him, Marcus crossed the room to pour himself a generous splash of brandy. God, did the little worm think he enjoyed selling his inheritance? he brooded, his expression savage as he downed the fiery liquor in a single gulp. It was like selling off pieces of himself bit by painful bit, and the anguish of it was more than he could bear. Curse his wastrel of a father, he thought angrily, hoping the old reprobate even now was paying for the evil he had done in his life.
Marcus was pouring a second glass when the door to his study burst open and Toby rushed in, his usually ruddy face almost white with panic.
"It was an accident!" he exclaimed before Marcus could speak. "They was supposed to kidnap her, not hit her!"
Marcus stared at Toby in disbelief, wondering if he'd finally gone mad. "Who was supposed to kidnap her?" he asked carefully, recalling that it was sometimes wisest to humor the insane.
"Gilford and Shipfield," Toby answered, his brown eyes earnestly beseeching Marcus. "Told them to carry her off like in the poems. Dashed good plan when you think of it; romantic and forceful, bound to work. But they grabbed the dragon instead, and now I don't know what to do."
"Your friends have kidnapped a dragon?" Marcus asked, wondering how great the scandal would be when Toby was carted off to Bedlam.
"They wasn't supposed to, mind," Toby stressed, grateful his cousin seemed to be taking the news so well. "They was supposed to take my beloved so that I could gallop to her rescue like a true hero, but they made a mistake. I . . . I think they may killed her," he concluded, his voice shaking with fear.
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