“I’m still not convinced your duke means her any harm. That mob last night was meant as a distraction. Those farmers wouldn’t have burned the Grange. They’ve never burned anything in their lives. Somebody was behind it, somebody who no doubt meant to drive you screaming from the house, but you had plenty of warning. You could see those torches for miles. It wasn’t the same kind of attempt as before.”
The color still hadn’t returned to her cheeks, but Gavin watched with a certain amount of fascination as she wrinkled her pert nose in thought. She had the impish features of a thoughtless child, but he had learned to respect the active mind behind them. She would make a terrible sailor, never obeying orders if she disagreed with them, but as an officer capable of thinking for herself... That was a silly speculation. Who would listen to a half-pint termagant?
“What would they accomplish by driving us from the house? Do you think they meant to kidnap Blanche?”
He’d considered that possibility. He’d kept a careful eye and ear out for the instigators behind the mob. He knew little of English accents, but he could tell which belonged here and which sounded vaguely out of place. He had a good eye for character, too. Those with the odd accents didn’t seem like farmer material to him. Had they been wearing slouch hats and raccoon vests, he would classify them on the same level as the two-bit outlaws he’d seen west of the Allegheny Mountains. Flat caps and frock coats didn’t quite fit the image, but he reckoned English villains dressed a little differently. That still didn’t mean they were kidnappers.
With his plate empty, Gavin sat back and contemplated his answer while sipping at his coffee. “I can’t imagine the duke sending thugs like that to steal his cousin, unless, of course, he truly wished her murdered. I have difficulty picturing proper English aristocrats dealing in murder.”
Since she remained silent, Gavin assumed the lady had the same reservations. He couldn’t imagine the lackluster creatures he’d met over here even committing a crime of passion. The cold-blooded murder of a beautiful young heiress seemed equally far-fetched. Since she apparently waited for him to continue, he tried out one of his theories.
“Is there some possibility the duke might try terrifying Lady Blanche into marrying him?”
Miss Whitnell made a wry grimace and shrugged. “I believe him perfectly capable of murder. Terrorism wouldn’t surprise me.”
Gavin had seen the duke from a distance when Anglesey had arrived in his fancy carriage. He couldn’t judge a man from that distance. He hadn’t been impressed with the elegant clothes or the duke’s youth or less than athletic physique. Pity he wouldn’t have a chance to meet the man in person. But terrorism?
“Let me put it this way,” Gavin said cautiously. “Would anyone have reason to believe Lady Blanche so easily terrified that she might turn to her powerful relations for help?”
Miss Whitnell’s delightfully arched eyebrows rose with this new perspective. “I should think not. No, definitely not. Blanche has played simpleminded innocence for years for Neville’s benefit, but even he must see that she has kept out of his clutches quite determinedly. He no doubt blames much of it on me...” Her eyebrows rose even further. “Perhaps he meant to terrify me!”
Gavin grinned. “Then, the man must have rooms to let in his upper story, as Michael would say. Any man in his right mind would know you would just get meaner and more stubborn if terrified.”
A perfectly enchanting grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. Had Gavin not learned to protect himself against feminine wiles long ago, that grin would have left him utterly annihilated. Even now, inured as he was to feminine charms, he felt a tug at long dead heartstrings.
He understood his lust for the first female in a long time that he’d encountered for any duration, but he didn’t like or understand this other sensation. The obstinate Miss Whitnell wasn’t at all the kind of woman he’d once admired.
Although—Gavin cocked his head and stared at the ceiling as he remembered those long-ago days—he had always had a certain inclination toward women with ample curves. He just didn’t credit most of them with the same sort of brains that Miss Whitnell possessed, nor the same sort of character, he had to admit.
The lovely, graceful swans of society he’d once courted had the constancy of barn cats. Miss Whitnell showed her devotion to her employer with every word and action. Perhaps this stirring of his insides was merely admiration for her character. Her irritatingly obstinate character.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she admitted with a smile. “Although it isn’t at all the thing for you to say so. Neville would not be so foolish as to believe he could scare me into persuading Blanche to marry him.”
“Which leaves us precisely where we were before. What could they hope to accomplish by driving you from the house? Did you notice if anything was disturbed? Did the servants guard the doors? Could anyone have got in without notice?”
She stared at him wide-eyed as she worked her way through his questions, then answered slowly. “They panicked so, I doubt the servants paid much attention to the doors.” She dropped her voice as she thought some more. “I really haven’t looked to see if anything was disturbed. I’ve been too busy keeping them away from you. But certainly Jenkins would have reported if anything were missing. Surely, you do not think them common thieves?”
“Not common. Thieves do not ordinarily set mobs on a household to drive them out. I just cannot quite find the connection between an arsonist burning down an entire household and endangering all within and this mob simply attempting to drive you from your home or terrify you into leaving. It seems as if there may be two different purposes at work here.”
Miss Whitnell’s expression changed to one of excitement. “Do you think possibly… if someone wanted to destroy something in Blanche’s possession, they might have thought it kept in town and so burned the house down to remove it? Now, for some reason, perhaps they’re uncertain as to whether they accomplished their goal and wish to verify this object is no longer with her?”
“That’s beyond far-fetched. It would be simpler and less risky to simply steal the object in the first place. Do you have reason to believe Lady Blanche possesses something of importance that anyone would destroy dozens of lives to remove?”
She shrugged and frowned. “Blanche has access to immense amounts of money, legal documents, family papers, any number of things, not to mention the usual sort of jewels, objets d’art, and so forth. She even keeps my father’s papers for me. She does not use the Grange much, so most everything was kept in London or the village house. We have not even begun to consider what was lost in the fire. Blanche’s safety came first.”
Gavin reluctantly admitted to himself that he had become more involved in this tangle than he had ever intended. He wanted nothing more than his privacy back. He had no desire to gallop about the countryside solving a mystery without any clues. His own estate needed constant tending, and his financial needs were much more dire than the Lady Blanche’s. Still, he could not write her off as a useless parasite of society and condemn her to arsonists and mobs as just deserts.
Damn it all, he would have to help them.
Chapter Twelve
“I feel like a poacher,” Dillian muttered, ducking under a low-lying branch near the wall she climbed across.
“You look like a poacher,” the marquess responded agreeably. “The homespun smock is an artistic touch, if I do say so myself. Far better than that blue monstrosity you wore here.”
“I’d rather be an unfashionable dandy than a poacher, thank you.” Besides, the smock itched despite the linen chemise she wore under it. She didn’t feel inclined to tell the wretch that, however. He occupied himself entirely too much with watching how she got about in these ghastly boy’s breeches. She couldn’t very well bind her hips as she did her breasts. Even the ill-fitting smock barely disguised what she couldn’t flatten. Thank heavens the marquess was not the kind of man who acted upon his lusts. She would make certain he only drank cof
fee and not liquor in her presence.
She would make certain she didn’t drink liquor when he was about. Those unsettling dark eyes made her quiver like no other man’s had. She didn’t like being stared at. Or she hadn’t until this infuriating man came along.
“How will we keep Neville’s men from seeing us?” she asked, more to divert her own thoughts than with any real desire to know his nefarious plans.
“What difference does it make if they do see us? They don’t know who we are. They can’t follow everyone who comes along the road. Just keep your hat pulled down over your face and slump a little if we meet anyone. They’re looking for you or Lady Blanche, not a Yankee and a poacher.”
He looked the part of a Yankee well enough, wearing that same ridiculous coat and hat as before. He looked the part of a dangerous Yankee, if the truth be told. He ought to have a pistol in his belt and a rifle in his hand. Neville’s men would stay clear of him, for a certainty.
“How much farther until we reach the horses?”
“I’ve stabled them in the next village. Cutting across these fields is fastest and will throw off any pursuit. If we’re fortunate, the duke’s men believe you’re holed up in the Grange and terrified out of your mind.”
Dillian made a snorting noise. “Neville won’t believe such idiocy. I’ve been ever so polite to him for years, but he still calls me a dragon.”
The marquess gave a muffled laugh as he reached the road and held back the shrubbery to help her through. “A fine dragon you’d make. Insufferable mosquito, I allow, but you could scarcely swallow a gnat whole.”
“Oh, you’re a fine one to make jokes about appearances, my Lord Beast. I suppose you think you fit the fire-breathing dragon description, don’t you? I saw you with your fine sword last night. You didn’t remove a single head.”
“I’m not inclined toward beheading misinformed farmers. I saw enough of that in the war. Blood and guts do not make a pretty sight; I’ll thank you to remember that the next time you want me to run a man through. Just because I look a beast doesn’t mean I need behave like one.”
“On the contrary, you behave more like a beast than look like one. I think you like skulking in corners and behind hoods. I think you are inherently antisocial and use your appearance as an excuse to hide.”
His laugh this time was mirthless. “What a busy little mind you have. Have you ever considered the effect on society should I introduce myself as a captain in the U.S. navy? I daresay I have turned cannon on any number of British man-o’-wars in past years. That should make me a welcome member of society, particularly since I have no wealth with which to distract them.”
Dillian followed him down the road, keeping pace with his longer legs only because he amended his stride to suit hers. She gave him a surreptitious look, but in the darkness and with his hat pulled over his face, she could see little of his expression. “With a title, you could no doubt attract a wealthy cit. Many families would pay a great deal to call their daughters marchionesses, as long as you’re not interested in marrying into the aristocracy.”
“I am very definitely not interested in marrying into the aristocracy. I am not interested in marrying at all. I have no desire to marry for wealth and spend the rest of my years avoiding my loving wife’s look of horror every time she turns her head toward me, thank you very much. And that’s quite enough of this conversation.”
His stride picked up pace, leaving Dillian practically running after him. Neville didn’t consider her a dragon for naught. Once she dug her teeth in, she didn’t let go. She didn’t mean to let go now. “How did you come to be raised American if you were in line for a title?”
That brought another of his humorless laughs. “They ran out of male heirs and got desperate, I suppose. I was never supposed to be a marquess. Had the family any choice, I would not even be a Lawrence, but my father and grandfather very properly married their doxies once they got them with child. My branch of the family never held a very high opinion of aristocracy and bloodlines. Actually, they never held a very high opinion of the law of any kind. You really don’t want to know more.”
After a line like that? She wanted to know it all. Dillian sent Effingham a curious glance, but he didn’t much look like an outlaw. Even in that ridiculous garb he looked the part of aristocrat. It was in his tall, lean elegance, the way he held himself, the arrogance of his tone, the carelessness with which he dismissed the opinion of the rest of the world. Even with his odd accent, no one would mistake him for anything less than a nobleman no matter what guise he wore.
“I should like to hear a great deal more, if you please. I have never been farther from home than London. I should like to know about the Americas and the navy and your family. You ride a horse magnificently, but you say you’re a sailor. How can any one man be so many things?”
“Easy. Be poor and desperate for any work at all. Have a younger brother and a sickly mother to support. The tale is not a romantic one. I have done many things of which I’m not proud. I’m quite content just staying at Arinmede and working the land. I don’t need society or annoying mosquitoes or lovely heiresses.”
His dismissive tone made it obvious the conversation had ended. Since the lights of the village came into view, Dillian gave it up for now. She didn’t know why she wanted to know more about this man who so obviously wished to be left alone. For some reason, he just fascinated her. She would get over that quickly enough.
They found the horses at the inn, where the marquess had boarded them. Dillian insisted on paying the shot with the money she had taken from the Grange’s household cash. The marquess quietly put his hand back in his pocket and let her proceed. After all, Blanche was the reason for their presence here. She had enough wealth for all of them. Dillian saw no reason to put the bankrupt marquess out of pocket.
She was pleasingly surprised that he had followed her train of thought and not objected. Not too many men would lower their pride so. Of course, not too many men traveled with women dressed as poachers.
They quietly took a back road out of town. Dillian knew this part of their journey. She knew the road they took led away from Arinmede. She returned his courtesy by not questioning. Surely, a sailor could read the stars and know they took the wrong direction.
She received her reward for her silence when he pointed out the soldiers at the crossroads ahead.
“Militia. I’m heading for Plymouth to take ship. You’re my tenant come to take my horse and some cattle I’ve purchased back to my farm. Don’t name any names if you can avoid it.”
Dillian glanced nervously at the uniformed men rising up from their lounging positions in the grass. A moment later, she gulped with more than nervousness. She recognized the colors of her father’s troop— surely, Neville hadn’t set the Queen’s Hussars to search for Blanche!
Chapter Thirteen
Dillian peered through the darkness, searching for familiar faces. Except for the officer, the motley group wore only ragtag remnants of uniforms. She’d met most of her father’s troop at one time or another, but after the war, the faces had changed. When she’d changed her name and moved in with Blanche, she had lost track of those few she knew, other than those listed as fatalities at Waterloo.
She thought she recognized Reardon as the officer lounging against the signpost, letting the others do his work for him. She didn’t know how to warn the marquess. Not only did she think it would look suspicious if she suddenly rode up beside Effingham, whispered her message, and rode back, but she didn’t know what she could say to him.
He didn’t know this country very well. He had probably never heard of Colonel “Slippery” Whitnell. Even though Blanche had let slip Dillian’s real name, it had made no difference to this man. She liked it that way.
“Who goes there?” called a man wearing the blue cape of a hussar but without the royal red shako. Dillian found it difficult imagining the dashing cavaliers of the Napoleonic Wars reduced to standing guard at country crossroads. Rear
don must have got himself on Neville’s wrong side to find himself in this humiliating position. She wondered how he came to be in charge of such a motley lot.
“Who asks?” the marquess asked complacently.
“An officer of the Queen’s Hussars, sir. Dismount and state your name and destination!” the guard barked.
Effingham remained mounted. His Yankee accent assumed that tone of idle amusement Dillian wished to trounce him for upon occasion. He was asking to get himself killed. She didn’t think these men any too happy with their duty. They would take him apart first and ask questions later if pushed too far.
“As far as I’m concerned, you could be a pack of damned horse thieves, my friends. And since I’m a United States citizen, I’m not much accustomed to bowing and scraping. I’d suggest you let me pass before I start another war just for the pleasure of seeing His Majesty’s royal forces cut to ribbons again.”
A couple of the other men sauntered over to stand behind their comrade, but Reardon remained where he was, watching the episode with boredom. Dillian bit her lip in an effort to keep her tongue still.
“A damned Yank,” one of the men muttered.
The guard who had halted them spoke nastily. “It seems we won the last war. If you want to get beat again, go ahead and try it.”
“Bloodthirsty, are we? You must not have been in New Orleans when General Jackson and his men cut down the ‘world’s finest fighting force’ by the thousands,” the marquess answered with the same dry amusement. “And we have a real navy now. Just imagine what John Paul Jones could do with more than one ship this time around. However, I’m not eager to slay my cousins. I’ll hold the peace if you’ll just let us pass. Even in this foolish country you can’t stop innocent citizens without a purpose when they travel public roads.”
For some reason, the marquess’s languid air of authority and bored amusement worked on the soldiers, or ex-soldiers, as the case seemed likely. Their stances relaxed, and they seemed to regard the conversation as a challenge.
The Marquess Page 13
