“So when the opportunity came up to do it again last night, I couldn’t resist. But I did do it properly, I hope you noticed.”
Noble’s mind ceased to function. He blinked a few times. Oh, he had noticed. She had done it more than properly; she had driven him past the point of his control within a few seconds of touching him. The fire she had started with her lips and tongue was still burning deep within him, melting layers of ice he hadn’t known existed.
“And, of course, I had Nick with me, so that was all right.”
His mind snapped back to attention. “What?”
“I had Nick with me.”
A suspicion slowly began to materialize. “Gillian, of what, exactly, are you speaking?”
She frowned at him as she reached for another slice of sirloin. “Of going out to rescue you last night. In the boots’ clothes.”
The boots’ clothes. She was talking about wearing the boy’s clothes, and he had thought she had meant…a wave of relief washed over him, making him chuckle at his own foolish thoughts. Foolish, silly, couldn’t happen, wouldn’t happen sorts of thoughts.
“You’re not angry with me still, are you?”
He was, but his relief was so great that he decided to be magnanimous. He spent a little time lecturing her on the magnitude of his generosity in forgiving her transgressions.
Gillian tolerated the lecture with as much good grace as she could muster, then decided to take advantage of the sudden change in mood of the Lord of Chuckles and ask him what was uppermost on her mind.
“Who would want to do you harm, Noble?”
He pushed back his plate and frowned at her. “That is no concern of yours, my dear, except insomuch as you can be assured I will see to your protection.”
“Me?” Gillian looked in surprise at her frowning husband. Why was he concerned about her when he was clearly the victim of a nefarious plot? “It wasn’t me who was struck on the head and stripped—”
“Yes, yes, we both know what happened. Regardless, it should not concern you. I will see to it that it won’t happen again. For your own safety, I will ask Crouch to accompany you when you go out. What are your plans for today?”
“But, Noble, if you’d just let me help you, I’m sure that together we can determine who—”
“Your help is appreciated but not needed,” he said firmly, then cocked an insolent eyebrow at her. Really, he was so maddening. If he would just see that she could help him, that he needed her…she sighed and answered his earlier question. “I had planned to call on Charlotte, my lord, and perhaps visit Lackington’s bookshop. I trust that meets with your approval?”
He nodded. “As long as you take Crouch with you.” He stood, then tapped on the table for a moment as he pondered something. “Yes, Crouch and one of the footmen; they ought to be sufficient. Regarding this evening, I have accepted an invitation to the Countess Lieven’s ball. Do you plan on attending as well?”
Gillian blinked at him. He couldn’t mean that he had no plans to see her throughout the day, could he? And worse yet, that he would go to a ball, their first ball since they had been married, without her? And an important ball, one held by the infamous Countess Lieven! No, he couldn’t mean that, surely he wasn’t that cold and unfeeling. Not the man who had, just a few hours before, swept her up in his warmth and sent her spirit flying in one of the most sensual experiences of her life. No. Not her Noble.
She smiled. “I would be happy to attend the ball with you, Noble.”
“Excellent. I shall see you there later, then.” He started for the door, pausing when he reached it. “I will be out this evening, my dear. I’m sure your aunt and uncle will be attending the ball and would be happy to escort you there. I will, of course, accompany you home should you desire it.”
Should she desire it? Should she desire the company home of her very own husband of three days? From her first public appearance as his countess? Gillian stared at him, stunned and hurt by his coldness. Tears pricked her eyes. How could he be this way? How could he be so unfeeling toward her when he had been so warm and wonderful that morning?
Noble nodded as if she had answered and left the sunny breakfast room. Gillian, her high spirits suddenly channeled into fury, threw her fork across the room and watched as it bounced off the cheerful yellow-and-white-striped wallpaper and onto the floor. “If I would desire him to accompany me home! Ooooh! I’ll…I’ll…oh!” She slapped her hand on the table, unable to think of anything horrible enough to satisfy her anger, then picked up her plate and threw it at Noble’s chair. Eggs, sirloin, marmalade, and the remnants of kippers dripped down the front of the ornately embroidered yellow material. Her spirits rose at the sight of it. Noble thought he could cut her out of his life, did he? She eyed a dish of oatmeal speculatively.
“I have finished,” she said a few minutes later to the startled footman who had been lurking outside the breakfast room, staring at the door with a worried expression on his face. “You may want to alert the housekeeper to a little problem with the upholstery on his lordship’s chair. And there seems to be a spot or two on the wallpaper. Well, it looks to be a lovely day outside. I feel quite energized. I believe a little stroll around the square is in order. Piddle! Erp! Come along, no dawdling now.”
She marched out with the two dogs, a hastily scrambling footman in attendance, while both Crouch and Tremayne Two stood gazing in horror through the doorway into the breakfast room.
Upon her return Gillian sent word to the nursery that she would like Nick to pay a call with her, and went upstairs to change her gown. As she was making a list of things she wanted to discuss with Charlotte, sounds of an altercation in the front hall drew her attention. Eerily counterpointing the noise of shouting and loud thumping were two mournful notes that twisted around and around as they raised in both volume and pitch.
“Blast! What are they up to now?” Gillian muttered as she raised her skirts and dashed down the stairs toward the hall. That was all she needed, for her two dogs to be causing trouble when she was on tenuous ground with Noble.
Leaping down the last few stairs like a gazelle, she skidded to an astonished stop at the sight before her. The three Tremaynes were locked in battle, pummeling and lashing at each other with an energy that surprised Gillian. Heretofore, the Tremaynes, with the notable exception of the disagreement the past evening in front of the town house, had always maintained a dignified bearing that reminded Gillian of an elderly penguin she had seen at a zoological gardens. And yet here the brothers were, arms flailing, the air rent with hurled accusations while grunts and muffled groans indicated when a blow was landed.
Crouch the pirate butler danced around the edges, yelling advice and generally getting in the way. The two dogs sat in a corner and howled. It was when one of the Tremaynes landed a particularly unsporting blow to one of his brothers’ kidneys that Gillian noticed there was an extra person in the melee.
“Who is that gentleman?” she asked Deveraux, who stood with a phalanx of footmen, watching the battle with an unhealthy gleam in his eye.
“Beg pardon, my lady? Ah, that gentleman? The one just there?”
“Yes, Deveraux, the one who is currently lying flat on the floor. The one who is being sat upon by two of the Tremayne triplets, evidently having been knocked unconscious. The very same one who appears to be bleeding profusely from the nose.”
Deveraux scratched his bald little head. “Ah, that gentleman. Well, madam, I’d be hard put to say just who he is. Perhaps Crouch knows. Crouch! Attend her ladyship for a moment.”
“Aye, mistress? Ye be needin’ me?”
Crouch jumped over the thrashing leg of a Tremayne and raised his voice to be heard over their din.
“Yes.” Gillian likewise raised her voice. Really, the noise the three men were making was prodigious. How Noble put up with them was beyond her reasoning. “Piddle! Erp! Cease that howling immediately! Crouch, do you happen to know who that gentleman is?”
Crouch look
ed around himself in surprise, his earring bobbing wildly. “Gen’leman, m’lady? What gen’leman would that be?”
“That one. There. On the floor. Bleeding on the parquet.”
“ ’E’s bleedin’ on me bloody parquet?” The roar Crouch gave startled the three Tremaynes into quietude for a moment, but soon one shoved another and a third laughed, and all three were back on the floor, rolling around on each other and the poor unfortunate bleeding man.
“ ’Ere now! That bloody swine is spillin’ ’is claret all over me floor! Charles! Dickon! Remove the ruddy trasseno!”
“Trasseno?” Gillian spoke Italian, but had not run into that word before. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that occupation. What exactly is a trasseno?”
“ ’E is, m’lady. ’E’s a right speeler for all ’e’s a swell.” Crouch watched with satisfaction as two of the footmen picked the gentleman up.
“Oh, I see.” Gillian didn’t see but wasn’t about to let her staff know that she wasn’t current with the latest cant. “Has he speeled on the floor then?”
Crouch’s eyebrows telegraphed wildly as he considered her. “Ye shouldn’t be usin’ such words, m’lady. It ain’t right ye should know about such things. ’Is lordship wouldn’t like it.”
Gillian turned to Deveraux as two of the Tremaynes, having knocked out the third sibling, stood and glared at one another.
“Is speeling an unfortunate occupation, Mr. Deveraux?” she asked.
“Yes, it is, madam. A speeler is an undesirable.”
Gillian was about to inquire after trasseno when Noble appeared from a back room where he had been attending to matters of a personal nature. “What the devil is going on here?”
“The Tremaynes have caught a speeler, my lord. Isn’t that excellent of them?”
Noble shot Gillian a quick glance of disbelief, then strolled forward to have a look at the bleeding man held by his two footmen. With one hand he grabbed the gentleman’s hair and yanked upwards, peering into the bloodied face. “Bloody…it’s McGregor!” he roared and waved his hand at the footmen. They released their burden. The poor Scottish speeler hit the ground like a sack of marble. He groaned and muttered quietly as he tried to move his arms and legs.
“Charles! Dickon! You dropped the speeler! Pick him up this instant,” Gillian demanded. A right speeler the gentleman might be, but he was a gentleman, anyone could see that by his elegant clothing. The two footmen bent and picked him up again.
“Not in my house you won’t. Drop him,” Noble ordered. They grinned and let go of McGregor again. He groaned even louder and lifted his head. One eye was swollen shut and a cut on his forehead was responsible for the blood covering the left side of his face.
“Oh, you poor man,” Gillian started, kneeling next to him, dabbing at the cut with her handkerchief. “Pick him up, Charles, Dickon. He’s injured.”
Alasdair McGregor, Lord Carlisle, groaned again and pushed himself into a shaky sitting position. “If you don’t mind, madam, I believe I’ll take my chances with my own two legs.”
“Wife, you will cease attending that blackguard and remove yourself from this hall,” Noble demanded, marching over and prodding the Scot with the tip of his boot. “I shall see to it this refuse is removed promptly.”
“That’s right, my lady, you just step back and let Crouch and me take care of the gentleman,” one of the Tremaynes said as he stepped forward, cracking his knuckles in a menacing manner. Tremayne One, Gillian thought.
“Aye, mistress, we’ll take care of the bloke. We’ll tuck him away in lavender, we will.”
Gillian smiled at Crouch, who had assisted the gentleman to his feet by one powerful tug to the back of his waistcoat. “That’s very sweet of you, Crouch, but I doubt lavender is the scent the gentleman prefers. Do you need further assistance, sir? Might I offer you a restorative strong beverage?”
Carlisle squirmed out of Crouch’s hold, stepped over the body of the prone Tremayne, and made an effort to tug down his waistcoat. “Indeed, madam, I do not require either your assistance or a strong beverage. I thank you for your kind concern, however, as it is certainly a welcome oasis in what has otherwise been a vast desert of hospitality.”
Gillian tsked over his cut and offered her handkerchief.
“Out!” Noble thundered, stepping protectively in front of Gillian.
“My lord, your manners!” Gillian prodded him to move. Noble stayed where he was. Gillian prodded again. “We have a guest who has suffered an unfortunate accident.”
Crouch snickered. Charles and Dickon snickered. Tremayne One and Two snickered, looked at each other in surprise, and immediately frowned at the floor when Tremayne Three snored.
Noble growled. “Out, damn you. Now!”
“Noble!” Gillian pushed to her husband’s side and tried to make her apologies. “Sir, I do apolo—”
“You do not. My wife does not apologize to the murdering bastard McGregor.”
The Scot dabbed at his split upper lip and grimaced in what Gillian thought was a smile. “It’s no concern of yours, my lady. I’ve received enough apologies for your husband’s behavior from the prior Lady Weston to last me a lifetime.”
With a snarled oath, Noble’s right fist shot out and caught the Scot on the chin. His head snapped back, and he would have fallen over backward but Crouch, standing behind him, grabbed him and held him up in case the earl wished to thrash him soundly.
“If you ever come near my wife again”—Noble grabbed the poor man’s cravat and hauled him over until he was just inches from his face—“I will cut out what passes for your black heart and dance the Highland fling on it.”
“You can try,” the man croaked in response, not seeming to be intimidated by Noble’s threatening countenance. Gillian gave him full marks for bravery, although she was forced to subtract a few for lack of common sense. One didn’t beard the Black Earl in this sort of a mood unless one had a death wish. “You can try, but we both know what will happen. You’ve tried to best me before, Weston, and failed. What makes you think you can do it now?”
Noble’s fingers tightened on the cravat. McGregor’s face turned red beneath the blood, and he struggled to free his arms from Crouch’s grasp.
“Now I have something worth fighting for. I warn you, McGregor, stay out of my life or prepare to forfeit your own.”
Noble released him so suddenly that the Scotsman would have hit the floor if Crouch hadn’t been holding him.
“Get rid of this rubbish, Crouch,” Noble said, and turned on his heel for the library.
“Did you think I would forget so easily, Weston? Do you think I will allow you to murder another innocent woman the way you did Elizabeth? Do you think I’ll let you torture this woman the way you did your first—”
Gillian flinched when one of the Tremaynes, who was assisting Crouch help the gentleman speeler out the door, accidentally shoved his elbow in the poor man’s mouth. She made a mental note to have a talk with the staff about the manner in which they helped wounded guests down the front steps, then turned to face the library. If Noble thought he was going to let that scene pass without comment, he could just think again!
She poked her head around the door. Noble had his back to her. She was about to speak when he slammed his fist down on the desk.
Oh, dear. He didn’t even flinch, and she was sure that had to hurt. She closed the door softly and eyed the members of the staff, engaged in cleaning up the mess on the hall floor. They suddenly refused to meet her gaze and attempted, with the exception of the Tremayne sleeping on the floor, to escape her presence.
“Tremayne Two.” She pointed at the butler. “I should like to speak with you.”
“Certainly, my lady,” he replied, tugging down his sleeves and straightening his neck cloth. “I shall be with you as soon as I have assisted Mr. Crouch.”
“Now, Tremayne.” Gillian frowned and tried to imitate Noble at his most haughty. It wasn’t a very successful imitation, b
ut it did the job. Tremayne made one or two more attempts to escape but followed with lagging steps after Gillian as she went upstairs to her small sitting room.
“You’ve been with Lord Weston the longest.” She attempted to keep her voice stern, but the butler’s long face was making her feel like the meanest sort of ogre. “You may tell me what that scene in the hallway was about.”
“Actually, Hippy has been with his lordship the longest,” Tremayne said, shuffling his feet.
“Hippy?”
“Hippocratus. My eldest brother, his lordship’s head coachman. Mother was of a classical bend of mind.”
“I see. And…ah…I cannot help but asking, but Tremayne the valet…?”
“Plutarch, my lady.”
“No, truly? Well, that is different. And you?”
Tremayne lifted his chin and stared down his nose at her. “Odysseus, my lady.”
Gillian considered this new bit of information and tried very hard not to allow the slightest peep of laughter to escape her. She swallowed hard several times and eventually was able to speak without her lips twitching.
“I cannot help but notice, Tremayne, that there appears to be an argument between you and your two brothers. Would you care to tell me why that is?”
Tremayne shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “It’s a bit of a long story, madam.”
Gillian cast a glance at the carriage clock on the mantel. “I don’t have time for a long story, Tremayne Two, so if you could abridge it, I would be most grateful.”
The butler cleared his throat again and clasped his hands before him, much in the manner of a small boy about to recite his lesson. Gillian sat back with a sigh. Evidently she was not to have the abridged version.
“It began many years ago, madam, when we lived in Oxfordshire. There lived in the house next to ours a sweet girl by the name of Clara…”
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