The Marquess

by Patricia Rice

  Men! Dillian thought with disgust. This could evolve into an all-night game of one-upmanship. Unless Reardon got a good look at her. Since he was rising from his pole position and swaggering toward them, that could happen any minute now. She glanced nervously at the one lantern sitting by the fire. They hadn’t brought it forward—yet. She didn’t want to wait around until they did.

  If she addressed the marquess by his title, these men would instantly fall back, but he didn’t want his identity revealed for fear it would lead to Blanche. Dillian wouldn’t endanger Blanche if he wouldn’t. The worst they could do was arrest him for insubordination or some such. She just didn’t want to think what would become of her once Reardon disclosed her identity as Whitnell’s daughter. Dillian sighed and held her tongue. She would sacrifice whatever it took for Blanche.

  “A damned Yank and a bloody sailor, or I miss my guess,” Reardon drawled as he strolled up.

  “Captain, actually,” the marquess responded in the same flat drawl.

  “And what’s this you’ve got behind you?” Reardon nodded his feathered shako in the direction of Dillian.

  The marquess checked behind him as if he’d forgotten anyone followed. He shrugged his shoulders beneath his long coat with disinterest when he turned back around to face his interrogator.

  “One of my cousin’s tenants. He’s taking some livestock back for Mellon. I fail to see any reason for holding up our journey in this fashion. If you’re the officer on duty, then tell your men to remove themselves from my path. The earl isn’t a politically active man, but he might raise himself to action if he hears how the queen’s forces are being used. If the queen’s forces they are,” he added with malice.

  Dillian breathed a sigh of relief. If Effingham threw around a title, they’d escape soon enough.

  Reardon’s voice held the same note of amusement as Effingham’s had earlier. “Do we refer to the Earl of Mellon? And what would a blamed Yank know of such an illustrious personage?”

  “He’s my cousin,” the marquess responded affably. “And he’s damned glad to see the back of me. So if you’re meaning to keep me here, you’ll hear from him soon enough. I have yet to know the reason for this little blockade. Am I accused of smuggling American brandy? Of riding the wrong horse before Derby? Just exactly what is the infraction?”

  Reardon wandered a little closer to Dillian. She could feel his sharp gaze take in her broken-down nag, her homespun smock, her lack of baggage. She just prayed the baggy breeches, smock, and filthy hat hid enough of her to pass inspection. Reardon might be idle and effete, but she had never thought of him as dumb. She held her breath and stared off into space like a dim-witted know-nothing.

  “I’m looking for a stolen heiress,” Reardon said casually, his gaze seemingly probing beyond Dillian’s loose smock.

  Effingham laughed. “For that, I’ll gladly dismount. If you find her beneath my saddle, I’ll happily turn her over to you.”

  Reardon shrugged and finally let his gaze return to the marquess as he sauntered in his direction. “Ride this heiress, and the duke will revive drawing and quartering just for your benefit. Go on with you. I’ve better things to do with this night.”

  Dillian sighed with relief as they silently rode past the soldiers and took the crossroad leading even farther away from Blanche.

  Reardon had no reason to know that his former officer’s daughter was now the companion of the missing heiress. She had dropped her old identity entirely when she’d moved in with Blanche. Blanche just referred to her as a distant cousin on her mother’s side. She’d taken her mother’s maiden name of Reynolds. He could not possibly make the connection. Why, then, did she have the uneasy feeling that he’d seen through her disguise?

  They rode well out of sight and sound of the soldiers before taking a path through a farm gate and finally striking out over the fields in the direction of Hertfordshire and Arinmede.

  The marquess didn’t seem particularly talkative, and Dillian had no desire to share her thoughts, either. She just wanted to reach Blanche as quickly and safely as possible. Even if Reardon suspected her identity, he’d have no reason to follow her, no reason to associate her or the “damned Yank” with Blanche. Nothing else mattered.

  They rode for hours, through fields and woods and finally on the roads that would take them to the manor. They stopped at a posting inn to refresh the horses and themselves. When the marquess returned with ale and food he’d persuaded from a sleepy scullery maid, he quaffed deeply of his mug and regarded Dillian with a look that made her uneasy. She made a show of brushing down her weary horse.

  “Why do I get the feeling that officer back there knew something he shouldn’t?”

  Dillian tried shrugging nonchalantly as he did. She wasn’t very good at it. “You were the one doing the talking. I played dumb as you told me.”

  “Your servants call you Miss Reynolds, but Lady Blanche called you Whitnell. If I’m harboring a fugitive, I’d like to know of it.”

  Damn his agile mind. He couldn’t possibly know the truth. She didn’t know the truth of it herself. He just jumped to remarkably odd conclusions using exceedingly few facts. Dillian gave up her pretense of knowing what she was doing and sipped the ale he handed her. She made a face at the bitter taste, but she needed something to wash down the night’s dirt.

  “I’m not a fugitive, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I’m just exactly what we’ve told you, Blanche’s companion. What my name is isn’t relative.”

  Effingham bit into his bread and cheese and chewed thoughtfully. He’d taken off his ridiculous hat, and Dillian watched as a hank of dark hair fell across his brow, almost in his eyes.

  She couldn’t imagine why she thought of him as an aristocrat. He ate common fare as if accustomed to it, dressed like the worst rabble, and had the conversational delicacy of a hedgehog. But she read aristocracy in the long lines of his patrician nose and square jaw, the jut of his cheekbones over hollowed cheeks, the arrogant mannerisms bred into him from birth. His father and grandfather might have stayed one step ahead of the law, but they’d never forgotten their breeding. They’d passed it on to this man.

  He finished his fare and gathered their tankards to take back to the kitchen. Only then did he reply. Giving her a stern look from beneath a thin line of dark eyebrows, he said quite forcefully, “I don’t give a damn who or what you are. I just won’t have my home or my people harmed in any way. Remember that.”

  Dillian found herself trembling as she remounted. She didn’t think the Marquess of Effingham made threats idly.

  * * * *

  Blanche gazed wistfully out at the first streaks of light on the horizon and waited for the orders to cover her eyes with the scarf Michael had given her to replace her bandages. She could still see little more than shadows and light out the window, but she probably couldn’t see more than that if her vision were whole. Darkness shrouded most of the landscape.

  In these limited moments between dark and light, she watched with amusement as the breakfast cutlery disappeared up Michael’s sleeve and reappeared in places like the flower vase with her morning rose. He retrieved a fork from his pocket and a spoon from her hair. Of course, the faint gray light of dawn from the window made it easy for him to hide the gestures that produced this sleight of hand.

  She could easily distinguish the white linen of Michael’s shirt and admire the way it draped his broad shoulders. She had scolded him for improper attire, but he’d only grinned and produced the rose from his shirt cuff. She could see his grin and the rose, if only in outline and grayness. He refused to light a lamp.

  “Never look so gloomy, my lady. You can see the flower upon the table and the sun’s light in the sky. That is far more than your physician expected. Time will give you the rest,” he said as he handed her the silk.

  Verity slipped from the still shadows of the corner to tie the scarf around her mistress’s head. She had very properly chaperoned these morning sessions, but she
remained so quiet neither of them knew of her presence until times like these.

  “I cannot sit here like a great lump of pudding for the rest of my life,” Blanche protested as the scarf turned objects into dim shadows. “Take me to Dillian, at least. I’m worried about her.”

  Her irritating footman laughed. “Worried about the she-devil? You would do better to worry about the marquess. He’s too much a gentleman to cut out her tongue, and he’s lived too isolated these last years to remember how to tame a shrew. You must smooth his ruffled feathers when he returns.”

  “Dillian isn’t a shrew,” Blanche objected, without emotion. She could tell he was preparing to leave, off on whatever odd projects he entertained when not with her. She shouldn’t be depressed at the departure of a servant, but the day stretched long and boring ahead of her.

  “You may ask his lordship’s opinion on the matter when he returns. I expect him shortly. In the meanwhile, I have errands to run, places to go. I bid you adieu, my lady.”

  She heard the distance in his voice. The fact that he actually bothered to say farewell told more than she wanted to know. He was leaving. She frowned. If he was her servant, he couldn’t leave without her permission. “I haven’t given you leave to go,” she informed him.

  “Neither have you given the night leave to turn to day, but so it has. Be kind to the marquess, my lady, and he will willingly die for you. You are two of a kind.”

  She didn’t hear him go, but she knew when he left. He took the sun with him. Blanche didn’t give in to the urge to ask her maid how he had gone. She preferred thinking of O’Toole as a dandelion seed wafting on the wind, alighting where the breeze took him.

  That thought didn’t make her any less restless.

  * * * *

  “You say she’s gone to France? That’s impossible! Blanche wouldn’t go alone, and I know for a fact that her companion is still in Hampshire.”

  The duke paced the dark library of his estate. Lined in mahogany shelves, paneled in burled walnut, it was furnished in the heavy satinwood of a previous generation. The magnificently carved ceiling—also in burled walnut—showed the talents of an artisan long since dead, who most probably had spent his entire life carving on just this one project. The chamber reeked of ancient wealth, prestige, and favor.

  Wearing a scissor-tailed morning coat, the hired investigator inspecting the shelves seemed oblivious to his impressive surroundings. He nicked a speck of dust from a leather-bound cover and lifted a book from the shelf to admire the contents, speaking idly as he did so. “For a fact, now? And will you not be needing my services any longer, then, Your Grace, that you know more than I do?”

  The duke glared at his irritating employee. O’Toole had the maddening habit of behaving as if he were to the manner born. Only another duke should have the arrogance to ignore Neville’s concern and fury and go about reading other people’s libraries. O’Toole should be trembling in his shoes right now, not perusing a volume of Chaucer.

  “Are you telling me that Dillian isn’t in Hampshire any longer?”

  O’Toole looked up with a pleased expression on his mobile countenance. “Very good, Your Grace. Now all you need do is believe it, and we’ll make some progress this day, after all.”

  Neville ground his teeth and wished for a pistol. Instead, he opened his desk and produced a small sack of coins. “How much?”

  “If I’m to follow them to France, it will take that and more, I wager.” O’Toole eyed the sack of coins dubiously.

  Neville pitched the coins at him and watched as his hired detective caught it smoothly and disappeared it into his capacious pocket. “Hire another operative to follow them. I want you to do something else for me.”

  The duke refused to allow himself pleasure as he noted the surprise in his hireling’s eyes. He’d debated this moment for days now. He’d just decided to act.

  “I want you to investigate the parentage of Blanche’s companion, Dillian Reynolds. I want you to look into any possible relationship between Blanche’s father, Lord Albert Perceval, late of the Queen’s Hussars, and Colonel Harold Whitnell, also known as Colonel “Slippery” Whitnell of the same unit.”

  O’Toole slid the Chaucer volume back on the shelf and approached the massive mahogany library table, where the duke stood. “To what end. Your Grace?”

  “Treason, O’Toole, treason.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gavin turned to check on his traveling companion and watched as she straightened her shoulders the instant she saw him turn around. Nothing told him more clearly how she must have slumped with weariness prior to his observation.

  Dawn cracked on the horizon, and because of the hours going out of their way, they hadn’t even reached the boundaries of Hertfordshire yet. She must be saddle sore and exhausted to the bone, yet she forced herself to sit upright and give him that cocky look from behind fine eyebrows that said she had as much energy as he.

  On his own, Gavin would have continued on to Arinmede. He had an urgent desire for the protective custody of his home. But Miss Whitnell hadn’t had the dubious experience of riding in the saddle for days on end, nor the callused toughness from sailing the sea on little more than hardtack and ale. He had those strengths. She didn’t.

  He sighed and allowed her to bring her mount beside his. “We have our choice of sleeping in the fields or stopping at the next inn. The horses need rest, and so do we. Neither choice smacks of propriety.”

  She gave him a look of blatant disbelief. “Since when have we considered propriety? I for one would prefer a decent breakfast and not whatever inedible contents you carry in your pockets. I vote for the inn.”

  Nothing shy about her. Gavin shook his head and proceeded onward. If she thought to trap him into marriage by her boldness, she would be gravely disappointed. Somehow, Gavin thought marriage was the last thing on the lady’s mind.

  They found a tiny inn in the next village, stabled the horses, and breakfasted on ham and eggs before Gavin inquired into rooms. The proprietor wadded his pudgy hands into his soiled apron and nodded knowingly. He’d scarcely acknowledged Gavin’s scarred face or odd attire since their arrival.

  “Got just the thing for you, your lordship, our best room. The lad can stable down with the horses.”

  Gavin seemed to have developed a sixth sense where his companion was concerned. He felt her freeze and wait with bated breath for his reply, even though she stood behind him.

  He had half a mind to agree to this arrangement. That would teach her a lesson for insisting on following him around like a pet dog. Heaven only knew, he didn’t need her company. He liked traveling alone. He didn’t need anyone, but he particularly didn’t need this pint-size keg of trouble.

  But even if his mother hadn’t been much of a lady, she’d taught him how to treat one.

  Giving Dillian a venomous look to keep her tongue dried up, Gavin gave a curt nod. “The lad stays with me. He’s less likely to get into trouble that way. He can fix a pallet on the floor.”

  Wielding his authority like a sword, he swung past the proprietor without giving him time to question or protest. The pudgy man ran after him, directing him up the stairs. Gavin scarcely needed directions. The inn had only two upper rooms: the common room with a dozen narrow cots, and the “best” room for visiting dignitaries or anyone else wealthy enough to spend more than tuppence for clean linen.

  At least the room faced west so the morning sun didn’t cast a light on the dust balls under the bed and the cracked pottery at the bedside. Gavin jerked the limp muslin curtains over the room’s one window. He’d prefer not seeing his companion’s expression when faced with this predicament.

  The door shut behind the innkeeper. Gavin waited, but she said nothing. Finally, he heard her moving around, and he gave in. As much as he liked pretending he was alone, he couldn’t resist seeing what she did now.

  She had the heavy coverlet from the bed folded up on the floor in front of the door. As he watched she
dropped one of the bed’s bedraggled pillows upon it. They had both taken advantage of the necessary before coming upstairs, but bathing facilities had been nonexistent. She looked dubiously at the cracked pitcher and bowl, then glanced back at him.

  “I think I’ll wait until we reach Arinmede to wash,” she said without preface.

  “Excellent thought.” He eyed the lumpy quilt with distaste. He’d slept on worse, but he didn’t relish repeating the experience. His side ached and had grown stiff. The wounds of war weren’t always gallant or romantic, just painful. He sat down in the room’s one rickety chair to remove his boots. “I don’t want to be seen near the manor before dark. I’m figuring we’re only a few hours away. It will get hot in here before then.”

  To his surprise, Miss Whitnell sat down on the pallet to remove her boots. He had assumed she would appropriate the bed. She must have taken his words below literally.

  “I’ll sleep there,” he informed her curtly.

  “Not with me, you won’t.” She pulled off her boots, then glanced down with disgust at her rough homespun smock. She didn’t say a word, but the glance was sufficient to tell him she wished she could remove it. Gavin imagined it irritated her tender skin. He didn’t want to contemplate the tender skin in question. Without thinking, he pulled off his fine linen shirt and threw it at her.

  “I’ll turn my back so you can put it on. It will be a sight more comfortable than that ungodly thing you’re wearing.”

  Instantly, Gavin wished he’d had the sense to turn his back on her before he’d thrown the shirt. Her eyes widened with alarm and hidden interest as he bared himself to the waist.

  He’d quit looking in mirrors years ago, but he saw himself in her eyes. He’d never been given to fat, and he’d worked hard all his life. He supposed he’d built muscles that the average aristocrat didn’t possess, and the scar on his side probably had an entertaining effect.

  Gavin felt a familiar stiffening in his groin as he recognized the interest widening Dillian’s eyes. The knowledge of her desire lit a raging flame to his.