“That sounds suspiciously like O’Toole talking, but for once, he is right. People are idiots.” Dillian lapsed into a sullen silence.
“Do we see Neville now?” Blanche asked with curiosity.
Dillian sent her a sharp look. “Why bother? He will no doubt tear the door down as soon as he hears I’m in town. I give Winfrey three hours to locate him. Shall we go shopping and leave him to tear the house apart alone?”
Blanche considered their options. “I think that might be best. Neville has a terrible temper when roused. We’ll give him time to cool off. Perhaps O’Toole can pour some brandy down him until we return.”
Dillian looked delighted for the first time that day. “I knew you had a brain behind that pretty face, my lady. Shall we stop at Gunter’s first? I think a celebratory ice is in order.”
* * * *
Dressed again in a black wig, hunched back, and carrying a gnarled walking stick, O’Toole answered the furious pounding on the door. Deliberately opening the well-oiled door as if it weighed two tons, he had time for a good look at the unwanted visitor.
The young duke had the look of a harried man. His elegant gray frock coat had come unbuttoned at top, and his cravat had a wrinkle in it. He had one hand fisted about his expensive beaver hat, and the other clenched in his trouser pocket, throwing the tailored lines into disarray. He glared at the footman answering the door.
“I’ve come to see Lady Blanche,” he announced, shoving the door open wider when Michael made no effort to do so.
“What’s that you say?” O’Toole cried, cupping a hand around his ear.
“I’ve come to see Lady Blanche!” Neville shouted back, shoving his way into the entry.
“Baby Ann? Ain’t no Baby Ann here. You’ve got the wrong door. No knocker up, if you look rightly. Don’t know why you’d be calling for a baby, anyhow. Screaming damp critters they are.” O’Toole hobbled behind the duke as Neville ignored his ramblings and headed for the stairs to the private floors.
“Blanche!” Neville shouted into the echoing emptiness of the household.
Wide-eyed, the caretaker’s wife scurried out of his way as he stormed down the main hall, O’Toole tottering as fast as he could after him.
“Which is Lady Blanche’s room?” Neville demanded, suddenly swinging on the servant behind him.
“Doom? We’ll all meet our doom, right enough,” O’Toole nodded sagely. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, that’s the way it is. Can’t say that you’re old enough for that, though,” he looked at the duke doubtfully.
Uttering a curse, Neville swung around and threw open the nearest door. He proceeded down the hallway, flinging open doors on unused chambers still in dustcovers until he came upon one littered in a chaos of gowns and petticoats, bolts of cloth, and sewing implements. Striding in, he began tossing things about in an apparent search for something.
“Here, now! You can’t go doing that to the lady’s things! I’ll have the watch down on you now if you keep that up! Looka there, now! It’ll take the maids days to clean through that. Out with you, now, you young scamp. There ain’t no Baby Ann here.” O’Toole swung his gnarled stick ineffectually at the young lord, beating him about the knees.
Neville kicked at the stick as if it were a pesky kitten and continued working his way through the room, ravaging the antique secretary thoroughly, no longer attempting to communicate with the obviously deaf footman.
“Damn her! There has to be some clue as to where she’s gone. They have to communicate somehow.” Slamming a desk door shut, Neville waded through the debris to the bedchamber next to the sitting room.
“Call the watch!” the doddering butler shrieked behind him. “Call the guards! The devil’s in the lady’s chamber! I’ll lay him low, I will! Just fetch the watch, you layabouts!”
The stick beat about Neville’s shoulders now as he sent perfume bottles and cosmetic cases tumbling from the dressing table with each jerk of a drawer. With another curse, he reached behind him to grab the stick and fling it across the room. “Get lost, old man. I’m looking for my cousin.”
“Cookin’ for a dozen! Bedlam, that’s where you belong, sir! Bedlam! Be gone with ye now. Out! Out!” O’Toole grabbed a candlestick and flourished it like a sword in the duke’s face.
Racing to the doorway at the sounds of shouts as they entered the front hall, Dillian nearly collapsed with laughter at the tableau she discovered upon reaching her bedchamber. O’Toole pranced and danced like some demented puppet, flourishing his candle sword, screeching at the top of his lungs, while the noble duke just looked ill-tempered and impatient.
“I think I just may keep you around as court jester.” Dillian laughed at her ranting footman as she strolled into the chaos that had been her bedroom. “Hello, dear Neville. How are you doing today? Would you like me to show you how to use that powder duster? Just a little to your cheeks to take away that furious red might do the trick.”
The hunchbacked footman leapt and wailed a little longer, but at a brisk gesture from Dillian, he hastily departed.
Neville glared and started to follow the servant, but Dillian blithely blocked his path. “She’s not here, your noble grace. She’s not anywhere you can find her. She’s somewhere safe and happy.” Wickedly, she added, “And a romance just might lurk in the offing. Wouldn’t that be lovely, now? We couldn’t have a June wedding, of course. She’ll want time for the burns to heal. But July, perhaps. Don’t you think July a nice month for a wedding?”
Neville looked as if he might throttle her. Dillian had some difficulty standing still before the awful murder in his eyes, but she had to give O’Toole time to spirit Blanche to safety. She refused to retreat.
“Oh, by the way, would you happen to have the papers Blanche stored for me in the vault?” she asked casually. “They belonged to my father. I thought I might write his memoirs now that Blanche may safely be married in a few months.”
“I don’t know anything about your bloody papers, Miss Reynolds. You’re her damned companion! Why aren’t you with her? Do you work with this villainous lover to see her reputation ruined beyond repair? How much does he pay you to stay away? I’ll double it. Just tell me where the hell she is!”
“My, my. A little testy, are we? You may pay me anything you like, but the only thing that will get me out of here and back to Blanche is those papers. Your nasty-minded solicitor won’t give me the books that Blanche left with him, and someone has stolen the papers from the vault. That does not look very good, now, does it?”
Dillian omitted the fact that she and Blanche couldn’t open the vault if they wanted to but their eccentric footman had fingered it open easily. As he’d said, the only contents were a few of Blanche’s baubles.
“What does not look very good is your blackmailing me to obtain them. I know nothing about your bloody papers, but I’d like to know who you really are, Miss Dillian Reynolds. Just exactly what connection is it you have to Blanche?”
Dillian batted her eyelashes. “Why, the very best, to be sure. Now, if you will excuse me, a lady must keep her reputation, you know. Entertaining you like this in my boudoir could lead to all sorts of improper speculation. You wouldn’t wish to be shackled to a penniless female, now, would you?”
She stepped into the hallway, giving Neville room to pass. At the far end of the hall, O’Toole waited to guide their visitor out.
“Now, remember, Your Grace,” Dillian called after the cursing noble as he strode down the hall. “Find those papers, and we’ll talk!”
“I’m going straight to Bow Street!” he yelled back. “You can’t kidnap an heiress in this country and get away with it.”
Well, actually, they could, Dillian thought as she waited for the sound of Neville departing. It would be extremely easy to spirit Blanche out of Neville’s incompetent hands for as long as they liked. The problem lay in the fact that without access to Blanche’s funds, they would run out of money before they could go far.
Chapter
Twenty-five
“Tell me again why I’m doing this,” Dillian muttered as Blanche stuck still another ribbon into Dillian’s unruly curls in a vain attempt at creating a sophisticated coiffeur. Still fearful of encountering one of the myriad pins that had adorned her bodice just hours before, she scarcely dared breathe.
From the doorway, O’Toole answered, “Because if you don’t, his noble lordship will storm through the crowd like a vengeful god breathing fire and smoke and will terrify everyone into fleeing before we find out anything.”
Both women turned to glare at the man lounging— uninvited—against the door jamb. Blanche responded first. “You have no business in here, Mr. Lawrence. Go on with you, now.”
O’Toole crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. “I like it when you call me that. It makes me sound respectable.” Since he still wore the hideous black wig and servants’ clothes, he looked a great deal less than respectable.
Dillian didn’t bother looking at either of them. They quarreled and spat like children, and she didn’t have the patience for it tonight. “Expecting me to stop his lordship from storming through society is a little like asking me to halt Napoleon’s army. Just exactly what am I supposed to do: trip him up? Shoot him down? Grab his finger and bite it? Will he even wear proper attire or will he appear shoeless and in a cloak?”
“He had shoes made,” Michael responded brightly.
Dillian groaned and rolled her eyes heavenward. “That means he’s wearing that shapeless American coat and trousers, doesn’t it? And the cloak, too?”
Michael shrugged. “He threw me out. I can’t say.” He sent Dillian a shrewd look. “It’s not his clothes he’s worried about.”
With a gesture of impatience, Dillian brushed Blanche away from her hair. She glared at Verity to keep the maid at a distance. “I know, but I have no intention of telling your lordly brother that the ladies swoon at his feet for reasons other than the scars. I should think his good looks have spoiled him enough.”
Michael chuckled and relaxed again. “Keep that up, and I might grow to like you. It’s wounded vanity that makes him bark and growl.”
At the remark about vanity, he sent Blanche a speculative look. In the privacy of Dillian’s chamber, she had removed her concealing headdress. In the mirror Dillian could see the raw red of her cousin’s injuries, but they seemed to heal well. Blanche appeared oblivious to their observation. She merely patted Dillian’s curls one more time and stepped back to admire her handiwork.
Dillian spoke where her cousin didn’t. “Blanche has no vanity. She barks at you because you’re annoying.”
The person in question looked up in surprise at finding herself the topic of conversation. “What did I say? When did I ever bark?”
Dillian grinned at the confusion suddenly marring O’Toole’s arrogant features. She patted Blanche’s hand reassuringly. “It’s quite all right, cuz. You may test your growling abilities on O’Toole all you like. I don’t like leaving you here with him. I want you to lock your door, keep Verity at your side, and not come out until I am home.”
Blanche looked startled, then colored along her hairline as she glanced at the man in the doorway. He whistled innocently, but Dillian had begun to understand the enigmatic Lawrences a little too well. This one might claim no relationship, but the dangerous gleam in his eye had a very familiar quality to it.
“Mr. Lawrence won’t harm me,” Blanche answered, still with an air of uncertainty. “You told me he’s the marquess’s brother, didn’t you?”
“She lies, I lie, he lies. Who’s to say who or what I am?” Michael answered airily. “But I swear upon the golden chalice, my lady, that I have never harmed a female in all my life. You are safe with me.” He made a gallant bow accenting his words.
“The carriage’s come!” the caretaker called up the stairs.
Michael frowned. “Your servants need training, my lady. I’ll take care of it.”
He vanished from the doorway. Dillian listened for his departure, but he moved on soundless feet. No wonder he succeeded in disappearing without notice. She wondered how he learned the trick.
“Hurry, now. You can’t keep Lady Darley waiting. Let me see how you look.” Blanche adjusted the wide blue sash beneath Dillian bodice’s, pulled the ivory lace overskirt out slightly to the side so it fell over the ruffled hem, and nodded. “You look absolutely grand, Dillian! I knew you would if I could ever dress you in a decent gown. You’ll have all the gentlemen swooning.”
“Who would want a gentleman who swoons?” Dillian grumbled, catching up her skirt and heading for the hall. “I would still prefer a sword if my task is to keep the marquess from beheading half the guests. At least I would stand a chance, then.”
“Your task is to introduce him to the proper people, and you know it, Dillian,” Blanche said as she followed her to the hall. “You may only pretend to be my companion, but you know everybody I know.”
“My father knew everybody, and see where it got him. Perhaps I should call in his guards and ask them to carry swords when the marquess is about.” Dillian spoke mostly to herself as she trailed down the stairs.
She did know a lot of people. She just hoped when Lady Darley introduced her tonight, they would accept that Blanche’s companion had always been an acceptable, if impoverished, part of society.
She prayed none of her father’s disreputable friends would recognize her should they have finagled their way into an event of this sort. They might wonder why Colonel Whitnell’s daughter now called herself Miss Reynolds. She had never met them in Blanche’s company. Surely, she wouldn’t be so unlucky as to meet them tonight.
Lady Darley smiled as Dillian bounded into the carriage. An older woman of indeterminate age, she was the widow of some relation of Viscount Darley, the husband of Marian Montague’s half sister. Dillian didn’t attempt tracing the family tree but merely accepted her as one of the numerous single females flitting around the edges of the ton. The lady’s graciousness recommended her more than her relations.
“You are very kind to do this for me,” Dillian said as she settled herself into the carriage seat.
“Not at all, my dear. I so enjoy shepherding a new young lady about. It makes me feel young again. The gentlemen will be all over themselves to meet you tonight. ’Tis a pity it’s not a ball so I could enjoy watching you dance.”
“A lady as lovely as yourself must spend more time dancing than watching,” Dillian answered in the same spirit. She had not much practice at politeness, but she had seen Blanche do it often enough. Surely, she could survive a single night of it.
Lady Darley smiled and tapped her with her fan. “You will do very well, my dear, very well.”
Dillian doubted that, but she kept her doubts to herself. Butterflies danced in her stomach, and her fingers clenched in knots in her lap, but she wouldn’t admit nervousness to anyone. At the grand old age of twenty-five, she had nothing about which to be nervous. She had gone past “on the shelf” to ape-leader.
She meant only to act as friend to a man who had no knowledge of society. Or civilized society, in any case. Just because that man was her lover...
Good Lord, she couldn’t even think of that without burning hot all over. How did women learn to be so blasé about such things?
She had all the time the carriage waited in line to stew in her own burning juices. The Earl of Dismouth evidently had invited half the ton to clear all his obligations at once. Dillian felt surely it must be midnight and the marquess would have come and gone by the time she and Lady Darley descended to join the throng entering the earl’s home. Knowing Gavin, he had walked and didn’t wait for this processional nonsense.
Of course, then again, he may not come at all, Dillian thought as she gazed around the crowd in search of his rather distinctive form. It would be just like the irritating man to drag her into this mob and then decide not to come.
Dillian thought the Earl of Dismouth would swallow his false teeth when Lady
Darley introduced her as Miss Reynolds. He’d met her as Blanche’s companion, of course, hardly a social equal. She hoped that was the reason for his startlement, anyway.
Dillian wondered how Michael had obtained her invitation, but she merely smiled at the old man and murmured something insignificant. She didn’t like the way those cold gray eyes followed her even after she left the reception line. Neville kept very poor friends.
She didn’t see Neville, but he no doubt had found a smoke-filled room in which to politick. She thought it might be amusing if he saw her here, but she wouldn’t count on that for the evening’s entertainment. With interest, she scanned the crowd.
“’Tis a pity Lady Marian can’t come tonight, but there’s Jessica, her sister, and Viscount Darley, her husband. Have you met them yet?” Lady Darley waved to a lovely blond young lady and her small but elegantly dark husband. Her relations, Dillian assumed.
With the lady’s introduction, she joined the circle of laughing, chattering young people. Neither Jessica nor Lord Darley spoke much, but their presence drew others, and Dillian’s acquaintance with them led others to accept her as one of them. She didn’t dispel that notion.
A whisper rolling across the room and a sudden diminishing of noise levels turned heads toward the entrance. At the sight strolling through the doorway, Dillian hid her gasp.
Wearing a white satin-lined cape and garbed in black and white evening clothes that enhanced his lean figure, the Marquess of Effingham outshone any other gentleman here. Doffing his cape, he swung it and his hat to the nearest servant as if accustomed to doing so in front of a large assembly every day. But Dillian knew the effort it took.
Though he held himself proudly, not disguising his scars, she could tell by the stiffness of his shoulders that one wrong blow could knock him flat on his face. Every muscle in his body moved tautly as he stepped down from the entrance and joined the deteriorating reception line.
The Marquess Page 25
