She nearly fell over with shock when a man’s broad, naked back rose from the lacy pillows.
One dark eyebrow cocked inquisitively as Gavin peered over his shoulder. “You could have waited until I answered,” he muttered, running his hand over his unshaven jaw and shoving his hair out of his face.
In utter shock, Dillian gazed around the pink and white room, then returned to the totally incongruous image of muscular, bronzed male flesh rising out of lace. White silk partially covered the dark hairs of his chest as he turned over. Pillows with pink-embroidered roses and hearts framed the black mass of his curls as he sat up against them. A canopy of white lace tied back with pink ribbons shadowed the strong angles of his jaw and the mocking curve of his mouth.
It was one shock more than Dillian could take this morning. Laughter bubbled, laughter she hadn’t released in so long it practically hurt as it escaped. She held her stomach against the ache and bent over with the force of her howls, collapsing on the nearest chair as Gavin scowled and threw his long—very naked—legs over the side of the bed. The image of a man’s hairy legs in Blanche’s maiden bed brought more gales of laughter.
A genuine smile even curved Gavin’s lips as the silken coverlet slid to the floor, revealing a neatly crocheted pink blanket beneath. When Dillian breathlessly pointed out the fluffy slippers beneath his feet, he lifted one with his big toe and admired it, casually heedless of his nakedness—until he stood up and crossed the room toward her.
Dillian abruptly stopped laughing.
She backed toward the door, uneasy with the sensations rising when confronted with this large, lean, decidedly naked man approaching her with a determined look in her eye. She didn’t dare lower her gaze any farther than his obstinate, and neatly cleft, chin. “No,” she said adamantly, although he hadn’t offered a word.
“Then, remove yourself quickly. Miss Whitnell, before I do something rash,” Gavin answered. “I generally bite the heads off people who laugh at me, but I’m willing to make an exception in your case only because I can think of many more pleasant things to do with you.”
To Dillian’s surprise, she didn’t take his advice and run. Something in the way he mentioned people laughing at him made her hold her ground. She pressed her hands back against the solid wooden door and dared to meet his eyes. “Did you decide yourself above being an object of humor when you became marquess or before that?”
He halted in front of her, his broad bare feet not inches from where she stood. His hand rubbed his scarred jaw, but the curve of his lip no longer mocked as he regarded her. “Michael laughs at me with impunity. I haven’t beheaded him yet.”
“Why is that, do you think, my lord?” she asked daringly, forcing him to look deeper into himself and away from the touchier subject of why he hadn’t taken off her head.
He saw through her ploy quickly enough. Placing a hand on either side of her, he pinned her in place. “Not for the same reason I didn’t take off yours, I can swear. Now will you get out of here and allow me to dress, or will you join me in a tumble on that confection of a bed?”
She didn’t have to look down to know he was well prepared for the tumble. Gulping, she edged toward the door latch. He lifted the arm barring her way. “Tell me where to find Blanche, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Very sensible,” he agreed, retreating a fraction to grab a pair of trousers thrown across a chair. “I would hate to profane that maidenly bed with what I have in mind right now. You’ll find your lady on the next floor up, where an intruder wouldn’t expect to find her.”
Dillian opened the door, poised for escape, but she couldn’t resist one further look back. “The rose?” she asked, almost wistfully.
He grinned, making his dark eyes twinkle. “I’ll let you guess.”
Dillian soared out of the room on winged feet. She couldn’t believe just that laughing smile could make her feel this way. In a moment, she would be sensible.
In a moment, she would realize that the Marquess of Effingham had no business in this house, that he couldn’t possibly have put that rose there, that she would have to call the watch and have him thrown out before he committed something disastrous. She would remember his insults, remember his rotten behavior, and she would scream bloody murder until he threw up his hands and went back to his Gothic ruin. In a moment. Not just yet.
Of course, in a moment, she remembered she was the penniless daughter of the infamous Colonel Slippery Whitnell, and the light-hearted feeling went away without her ever having to consider the other points. She made a suitable mistress for a marquess. She could never be anything else. That smile meant nothing more than his desire to see her in bed again as soon as possible.
By the time Dillian found Blanche, leaden shoes had replaced winged feet.
* * * *
Gavin winced as he looked in Blanche’s enormous gilt pier-glass to adjust his neck cloth. The reflection staring back at him was an alien one. In his attempt to suit society’s idea of a gentleman, he wore a dark blue superfine frock coat with a gold embroidered waistcoat of white silk, and fawn nankeen trousers, all of which cost him a small fortune out of his own pocket. He ought to bill the ladies for his expense.
The wretched starched neck cloth wrapped around his throat until he feared to lower his head, but its pristine whiteness served as contrast to his already dark coloring, making him look more savage than civilized. He hadn’t bothered having his hair trimmed, and it curled about his neck in unruly abandon. If he didn’t do something about it soon, he’d have to tie it back in a ribbon as Dillian did.
Though he didn’t recognize the elegantly clothed creature framed by Blanche’s gilded angels, he didn’t see the monster he expected, either.
Standing back, Gavin gave the cloth one more adjustment and surrendered. The man staring back at him didn’t precisely look English, but he didn’t look as deformed as he had expected.
He rubbed at the raised red marks on his cheek, but somehow Dillian’s casual acceptance of them had dwindled them to just scars, not the grotesqueries he’d seen them as. He still fought the urge to pull a hat down over his face, but he clenched his jaw and ignored the urge. He had plans for this day, and hiding in dark comers wouldn’t accomplish them.
Taking the front stairs two at a time, he eagerly awaited the light of approval in her eyes at the new Marquess of Effingham.
“Do you know where Michael is?” The voice he sought drifted upward from the front salon.
“Not since you threw him out of your room last night,” Blanche replied lightly. “You really shouldn’t be so mean to him. He’s making this whole thing a great deal more fun than it would have been otherwise. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he would fall in love with you, and the two of you could marry and live happily ever after? You could have the Grange to live in and raise a dozen little O’Tooles. You deserve that kind of happiness, Dill.”
Gavin froze on the bottom step.
Dillian’s laugh echoed through the hall. “I can picture it now with a dozen little imps disappearing and reappearing at will all through the house and stable. I would need put bells around their necks. Don’t lend your dreams to me, Blanche. I’ll not ever marry.”
Gavin was already heading toward the back of the house, bypassing the front salon, as these words followed him out.
Of course she would marry. Blanche had been entirely right. Dillian ought to have a half-dozen little cherubs running about her feet, making her smile, keeping her busy and out of trouble. She was meant for sunshine and laughter. He couldn’t picture her haunting the sidelines of London society in the shadow of her cousin, but he could see her swirling in circles on the green grass with her face turned toward the sun and her skirts billowing around her.
Mischievous elves belonged in the country, not the city. A mischievous elf like Dillian might possibly be the perfect solution to the imps of hell that kept Michael wandering.
He’d never given Michael the kind of home he’d needed. Michael had
a nature as wide and generous as Dillian’s. He needed a home, love, and support. He deserved a laughing woman on his arm and in his bed.
Gavin had only offered him darkness and scorn, a life of hand-to-mouth existence. He’d thought a roof over his head and food in his stomach would suffice, but not for Michael. He’d known that. He just hadn’t acknowledged it.
He let himself out the rear door into the gardens, then into the mews. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see him parading around Lady Blanche’s town house anyway. He’d only sought to stay and protect the women while Michael uncovered the journals.
Now that he’d brought in the Earl of Mellon’s servants, the intruder would have a difficult time of entering without notice. He’d find more security to reinforce them after dark. They wouldn’t need his presence any longer.
He had some inquiries he needed to make, a few introductions to arrange, some information he needed to ferret out. Michael should return soon to keep the women out of mischief.
One troubling thought lingered long after Gavin left the garden gate: Michael deserved better than a woman soiled by his brother.
Chapter Thirty
Lieutenant the Honorable James Reardon sprawled inelegantly in a rear booth at White’s. At this hour of the day nothing stronger than coffee sat on the table before him. His companion occasionally rattled his newspaper as he perused it, but the lieutenant didn’t take the hint. He sipped at his coffee, kept a close eye on arrivals, and continued his monologue.
“I mean to find her, Martin. I thought one of you would look after her. I can’t believe you lazy louts went about your own business and let her disappear like that. I should never have stayed in Vienna so long. Damn it all, if it hadn’t been for that bloody cannonball …”
“The bloody cannonball could have killed you, but it didn’t. It could have crippled you, but it didn’t. All it did was give you an excuse for lingering with a certain well-endowed countess in Vienna until you perfected your waltz. Don’t give me that faradiddle, Reardon. If you’d had any concern for the girl, you would have written.”
Reardon glared at the slightly balding man in the booth across from him. “You’re a fine one to speak, Martin. You came back to a comfortable position, a few thousand pounds of your own a year, and a wife with a family to keep you well to grass in the future. You don’t have to scrape on what little can be squeezed from a lieutenancy. Why didn’t you see how she fared?”
Martin sipped at his coffee and glared over his spectacles at his friend. “I did. She was nowhere to be found. Hawley and the major joined up again when Napoleon came out of Elba rattling his sabers. Timmons and Shelby were in the Americas catching cholera in the swamps while the navy burned Washington. Who was there to ask? If I could have found Whitnell’s papers, I might have found a letter or two to locate her, but you’d already ordered them shipped, and you weren’t to be found. They found nothing on his body. I did all I could under the circumstances. I saw him decently buried. He didn’t have relatives to speak of that I knew besides his daughter. Damned if I know what else I could have done.”
“Timmons and Shelby and the lot shouldn’t be difficult to find now. Have you asked them? Timmons showed her how to ride a pony. She’s always had a fondness for him.”
Martin set the newspaper aside with an exasperated glare. “She don’t know his relations. How would she reach him? You’re all about in your head, Reardon. I don’t know what you’re talking about. For all the chit doted on you, you never gave her a second look. She’s no more feathers to fly on than you have.”
Reardon growled something irascible, drained his cup, and kept his attention focused on the door. “I made sure no one else touched those papers. Her father meant her to have them. I just hope she received them, and they’re not sitting around the War Office somewhere. Whitnell raked his share of coals in hell, but that daughter of his meant a lot to him. He meant to take care of her.”
“He had a damned rotten way of showing it, is all I say,” Martin muttered, returning to his newspaper.
A tall, lean figure elegantly garbed for this hour of the day detached himself from the table behind Reardon, rising to stand over their booth much as Gabriel must stand before the golden gates. Reardon glanced up in surprise, taking in the rapier-destroyed cheek before sitting a little more upright in the presence of ferocious dark eyes.
“You speak of Colonel Whitnell, I assume?” the stranger inquired with exaggerated politeness and an American drawl.
“Can’t see that it’s much of your business, old chap,” Reardon replied arrogantly. “Eavesdropping can get a fellow thrown out of here.”
“Vilifying a lady’s family and speaking ill of the dead ought also, but I’ve noticed British rules are a little more lax than ours,” the stranger responded with equal arrogance.
“See here, you interfering bastard, I ain’t said anything against the lady...”
“Shut up, Reardon,” Martin said pleasantly. “You were flapping your gob in a dozen different directions, as usual.” Turning to the stranger, he inquired, “The Marquess of Effingham, I presume?”
Gavin nodded curtly. “I wish to learn more of Whitnell. You served with him?”
Another gentleman wandered up in time to hear this question. Pounding Gavin on the back, he shook his head in mock dismay. “Don’t go asking these fellows about Whitnell. They worship the ground he walked on. If you want the real truth about the bastard, let me tell you a tale or two.”
Reardon shoved from his seat and glared at the newcomer. “Get your royal ass out of here, Dunwiddy. You don’t know a thing about the colonel. All you remember is the time he threw your scrawny little rear over the wall for tattling to the dean. You aren’t worth the spit to polish his boots.”
“The only thing I tattled to the dean was the method the lot of you used to cheat on the exam. Whitnell’s main asset was his ability to slip through every damn crack in the rules. He was a bounder then, and he was a thorough-going rotter when he died!”
Gavin eased away from the altercation as several more gentlemen added their opinions of Colonel Whitnell’s character. The boundary line in the fracas became immediately clear: his men would stand behind him with their dying breath; all others maligned his character beyond repair.
As he turned away, he noticed the Earl of Dismouth sitting in one corner watching the debate with interest. He caught Gavin’s eye and reluctantly, Gavin strolled over. He didn’t like the man’s looks. Dismouth represented the epitome of everything about the British class system that Gavin despised. Undoubtedly brought up in the best families, in the best schools, trained to civil service for the good of his country, he had the arrogance of his station with very little understanding of the people he meant to govern. Idly, Gavin wondered if he’d even walked through the town his title represented.
“Started a bit of ruckus over there, didn’t you?” Dismouth made a lazy gesture toward the chair across from him. “Believe we met last night, didn’t we? Effingham, isn’t it?”
“Dismouth.” Gavin nodded curtly, taking the seat offered, not answering any of the obviously rhetorical questions.
“What interest can an American have in Colonel Whitnell?” the earl asked idly, sipping at his morning libation as he set aside his newspaper. “As far as I’m aware, the scoundrel’s bad habits never extended to that particular continent.”
Gavin signaled a waiter, taking his time before replying. He had learned many things in his lifetime. One of them was to hold his tongue until he’d thoroughly considered his reply. When another cup of coffee appeared before him, he returned his attention to the earl.
“I have heard rumors,” he answered casually. “A man in my position takes an interest in his surroundings. It’s beneficial for survival where I come from.”
The earl scowled and signaled to have his cup refilled. “Learning about a man dead these three years or more isn’t likely to benefit anyone, unless your interest is in the daughter. She’s penniless, yo
u realize.”
Gavin shrugged and sat back in his chair. “To my knowledge, I’ve not made the lady’s acquaintance, but thank you for warning me. An heiress is more to my taste.”
Interest finally warmed the earl’s cold eyes. “An heiress? You wouldn’t happen to have a particular one in mind?”
“I’ve not been about in society long enough to sort them out. As I said, I’m just feeling my way about. Curiosity is one of my besetting sins. I keep hearing the name Whitnell whispered about. For a man dead three years or more, it seemed odd.” He nodded in the direction of the still vociferous argument across the room. “He still engenders strong opinions.”
Gavin watched as the earl’s expression grew serious, apparently over some inner debate. When the man spoke again, he listened as carefully to what wasn’t being said as to what was.
“Wellington nearly lost Waterloo,” the earl answered in a low voice meant to indicate secrecy. “You really should take up your place in Parliament, Effingham. We need fresh blood to keep us awake. You Americans have different ways of looking at things that might stimulate some refreshing debate. We keep much of national policy to ourselves, sometimes to our detriment. Did the country know how close we came to being part of Napoleon’s dominions, the uproar would be enormous.”
Fustian, Gavin muttered to himself. This man no more cared about public opinion than he wanted to give a vote to women, Catholics, or non-landowners. “You have sufficient uproar on your hands as it is,” he said idly. “I shouldn’t think you would want to stir more debate over Wellington’s incompetency at this date. They’d likely stone you.”
“Precisely what we wish to avoid, but if the real truth about Whitnell got about, we’d have no end to it. The churls are up in arms as it is. If they should hear their great national hero would have lost the war through the influence of a man like Whitnell, who should never have served in his majesty’s finest troops—well, I shouldn’t wish to be around when that happens.
The Marquess Page 29
