“What rot are we talking now?” the duke demanded to know.
Before anyone could answer, a footman in livery appeared in the library doorway. “A messenger, Your Grace. He wishes to speak with Mr. O’Toole and Lieutenant Reardon.”
When Gavin’s message was repeated, Michael grabbed his hat and left.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Garbed in a flowing lawn nightrail from one of the trunks, with one of Gavin’s coats over her shoulders for warmth, Dillian amused herself by dusting Gavin’s library. She didn’t worry greatly about the servants discovering her presence. From the thickness of the dust she assumed they didn’t spend a great deal of time here. Actually, she didn’t spend much time in dusting, either. She chewed on the hunk of bread she’d stolen from the larder and admired an old illustrated text of Gulliver’s Travels.
A knock at the front door brought her head up. Having no great desire to meet Gavin’s staff or his guests while dressed like a ragamuffin, she settled in the window seat and glanced out the window.
Officers were deploying red-coated soldiers across the shaggy lawns while a man in gentleman’s hat and tails waited on the drive, overseeing the operation. An officer pounded on the door. Dillian didn’t recognize the officer, but she recognized the gentleman. Dismouth.
She didn’t think it very likely that Gavin had sent British soldiers to guard his home. This didn’t bode well at all. Torn between hiding and wanting to hear what the officer said, Dillian took a middle course. She slipped down the back hall to the dumbwaiter. She’d already learned this was where the servants stood to gossip.
“Says he’s come to claim the place in His Majesty’s name,” Matilda grumbled a little while later outside Dillian’s hiding place. “Can’t imagine what His Majesty would do with a pile of stones like this.”
“Reckon we should leave?” Janet, the maid whispered. “Did he say what was to become of us?”
Matilda grunted cynically. “If he’s staying, he’ll not wait on himself. You can be sure of that. I’ll wait until his lordship returns, myself. I’ll hear it from his mouth and no other’s.”
Dillian cheered in silent approval. She debated the wisdom of revealing herself to the staff and decided against it. They didn’t know her and the explanations would be interminable. She couldn’t be certain they would believe her tall tale over an earl’s.
When the soldiers searched the house, however, Dillian panicked. She couldn’t believe Dismouth knew of her presence, but surely he knew Gavin had the journals. What else could he look for?
She bolted for the secret passage. She disliked spending hours in the dark, but like the servants, she would wait for Gavin.
Except for one or two scattered about downstairs, the soldiers eventually left the house to stand guard outside. It had turned dark by then, but Dillian knew her way around this house blindfolded. She’d rummaged food from the pantry and retreated to the top floor, where she could observe the proceedings without being disturbed.
She sipped from her water glass and nibbled on bread and cheese while she contemplated the movements of the shadows outside. She didn’t think she could make it across the lawns unnoticed, not in the ridiculous gown or any other attire she might find in the wardrobes. If she dispensed with the coat, she might make a good ghost, but her sense of humor flagged. She worried about Gavin.
Could they have locked him in jail for some infringement of the law of which he knew nothing—or more likely, of which he cared nothing? She didn’t think he would take that kind of risk while her attackers remained at large.
She rather suspected Dismouth’s arrival had something to do with those blamed journals. She just prayed it had nothing to do with Gavin’s disappearance. No messenger had arrived to assure her of his safety as he’d promised.
Her stomach churned at this knowledge, but Gavin had promised to return, and he would. She just need wait and watch until he did. She didn’t know what would become of her then. She had told him she would be no man’s mistress, yet he’d offered no promises of marriage. He wanted her in his bed, but men frequently suffered temporary aberrations of that sort. Nothing ever came of them but babies.
She instinctively covered her belly. She supposed she could force him to marry her if she carried a child, but she’d rather rely on land to support her.
Still, she worried about Gavin.
A furtive movement near the stable caught her eye. Surely, Gavin wouldn’t try defying an entire troop of soldiers.
She definitely saw movement by the stable, and more than one shadow slipping from the trees. Michael as well as Gavin? Reardon? What could they possibly do?
She prayed those shadows represented rescue or she placed herself in a world of danger, but she couldn’t stand here vacillating. She would have to lend a hand from inside.
Pulling Gavin’s coat over her arms, Dillian tucked her newly loaded pistol into the pocket and picked up the sword she’d removed from the library. She preferred the lighter rapiers, but she could wield a sword sufficiently well to slash and wound. She had no great fondness for blood, hers or anyone else’s. She’d never tried explaining that to her father’s friends when they taught her weaponry.
Dismouth had claimed the newly refurbished master chamber, of course. She’d heard the servants on the stairs complaining, threatening to quit if the “lady” appeared at this trespass. Dismouth had laughed at their fears. He wouldn’t laugh quite so hard if the ghost actually put in an appearance.
Dillian grinned for the first time this day. Slipping to the farthest wing of the house and taking the servants’ stairs down, she found the chamber where Blanche had stayed not so long ago. The soldiers wouldn’t have discovered the secret passage yet.
* * * * *
Gavin found his point of entry. Concealed by the branches of the overgrown evergreens, he awaited only the opportunity. The shouts as the first fire took hold alerted him to his chance.
The soldier nearest him swung his musket as he searched the darkness for the source of the commotion. The first blaze of orange against the night sky brought more shouts. Without another thought to his post, the soldier rushed to the aid of his comrades.
Quite content with that state of affairs, Gavin closed his cloak, concealing his shirt and waistcoat. He strode past the shabby shrubbery to an old oak that always rubbed annoyingly outside his study window. Hidden beneath its shadows, Gavin flung a rope over the lowest branch, knotted it, and began climbing.
He preferred avoiding the guards Dismouth had left on the bottom floor. He couldn’t imagine the earl lowering himself to sleep in the study for the servants’ sake as Gavin had done. No, Dismouth would have taken the one decent bedchamber in the whole damned ruin. Gavin gritted his teeth at the image of the bastard in the bed Dillian had prepared. He would slaughter the scoundrel for that crassness alone.
The secret passage wing overlooked the stable, so he’d had to enter elsewhere. It didn’t matter. If Dismouth had posted a guard outside his chamber door, Gavin figured he could remove him. He had a great deal more incentive than the soldier did.
As he crept closer to the central part of the manor, Gavin noted no lights or guards. Checking down the stairwell, he saw a soldier leaning over the baluster, apparently trying to determine the source of excitement outside. The screams and yells were faint inside the sprawling house, but enough to cause alarm.
Grateful he didn’t have to waste time on a man only following orders, Gavin turned to the master chamber.
He found the door locked but knew from experience that it had no bolt. Without a qualm to the destruction he might cause, Gavin slammed his boot heel into the crumbling old lock. The door sagged open without resistance. Knowing he had only seconds before the guard rushed up the stairs, Gavin pulled the brace of pistols concealed beneath his cloak and shoved past the sagging panels into the unlit chamber.
Outlined against the uncurtained window, Dismouth leapt for his sword as the door crashed in.
; Cloaked in black, Gavin did his best to blend in with the shadows along the wood paneling.
“Who’s there?” Dismouth cried, bracing his sword.
“Colonel Whitnell’s ghost,” Gavin answered dryly, comprehending the other man’s plight. One couldn’t strike what one couldn’t see.
The guard from the stairs rushed in with musket upraised. Gavin held out his foot and let the other man run into it. The soldier slammed nose first to the floor, his musket roaring into the ceiling overhead as it hit the floor with him.
From down the stairs a woman’s scream echoed. Janet. He’d recognize her screams anywhere.
“Effingham, is that you?” the earl demanded as the soldier scrambled to his feet.
Gavin grabbed the musket. With a mutter of apology, he slammed the stock against the soldier’s head, sending him crashing to the floor again.
The earl didn’t wait to ask more. Brandishing his sword, he leapt in the direction of Gavin’s movement.
Gavin really didn’t want to shoot the man. Each pistol carried one ball. He’d rather save them for more dire circumstances than this. He wanted the earl alive and well in a dark, dank dungeon somewhere. He dodged the sword blade and brought one of his pistols down hard against the earl’s arm.
Dismouth roared with rage. From below, Janet screamed again. Other voices joined her, obviously wondering if they should brave the ghosts on the second floor to rescue the earl. Gavin longed to howl with laughter, but the earl hadn’t realized he was outgunned yet. Swinging his sword, the older man damned near disemboweled him.
“You’re going to regret that,” Gavin growled, kicking high with his boot.
The sword flew from the earl’s hand with the blow. Gavin plowed his fist into Dismouth’s midsection, and he bent, doubled in anguish.
At the earl’s cry, a slender figure garbed all in white and wielding a splendid silver sword emerged from the wardrobe. Gavin had to blink twice to make certain the apparition of the “lady” hadn’t just materialized.
The earl, on the other hand, could only see a white blur walking through a wall. He screamed in terror and stumbled toward the door.
“Very good,” Gavin said approvingly, admiring the way the apparition drifted toward him, sword gleaming. “It sounds as if Matilda is about to brave the stairs. Don’t give her heart failure, please. It’s hard to find good cooks.”
The sword glimmering in the lady’s hand dropped abruptly to her side. “The damned thing’s too heavy to hold up long anyway,” she grumbled. “He’s getting away.” She nodded toward the earl staggering into the corridor.
Leaving Dillian guarding the fallen soldier on the floor, Gavin dashed after the earl, knocking him sidelong to the floor with a blow from behind. Gallantry didn’t come into play with traitors and kidnappers, he reasoned.
A pounding on the front door joined the voices of the servants amassing on the stairs, and he raised his eyebrows. Why would anyone bother knocking?
Removing another piece of rope from around his waist, Gavin wrapped Dismouth’s hands behind his back while the earl struggled for consciousness. The man apparently had a harder head than the soldier’s.
“Gavin, this one’s coming ’round,” Dillian called from the bedroom.
Cursing, Gavin knotted the earl’s bonds and rose to look for something to use on the guard. Familiar voices below halted him.
“Dismouth, are you up there?” Neville.
Gavin clenched his fingers into fists. He had no reason to trust the duke.
“Why isn’t anyone dousing the fire?” Lady Blanche’s imperious demand followed the duke’s call. “Reardon, have those soldiers fetch some buckets. Someone could get hurt.”
Janet’s hysterical screams from the stairs interrupted this voice of reason. “The lady! The lady’s walking! I told you. Didn’t I tell you? We’ll all die in our beds!”
At a sound from behind him, Gavin swung around to protect his back—only to see Dillian dragging the sword behind the long train of her over-large gown. With her hair covered in some translucent concoction of white gauze, she possessed a decidedly ethereal appearance.
At the sight, Janet turned and fled from the stairs below.
“Get dressed before they all run up here hunting ghosts,” he growled, jerking the half-conscious earl to his feet.
“Why is Blanche down there?” Dillian asked with more curiosity than fear.
“I daresay you can ask my brother that, whenever he deigns to put in an appearance. What happened to the guard?”
Dillian looked guiltily down at her sword. “I meant to hit him, but as soon as I raised it, he fainted dead away again. People seem to do that regularly around here.”
Gavin couldn’t help it. A chuckle rumbled deep in his throat. By the time Blanche and Neville pushed past the hysterical servants on the stairs, he held the earl with one hand and the stair rail with the other, helpless with laughter.
* * * *
Dillian watched with amusement as Neville screeched to a halt at the sight of her ghostly self. Obviously not believing his eyes, he turned to the laughing marquess and his prisoner instead.
Amused, Dillian lifted her sword and flailed it through the darkness. “Dare to touch the hair on the head of an Effingham, and I shall strike you dead!” she wailed with what she considered quite dramatic flair.
Below stairs, Janet screamed and fainted. In the light of the lantern he carried, Neville paled. Gavin laughed harder.
“Dillian! Stop that,” Blanche scolded, coming up behind the duke. “You have the servants in hysterics, not to mention Effingham. Is that Dismouth you have there?”
“It is, indeed.” She regarded the half-conscious, moaning earl with murderous intent.
“Put the sword down, woman,” Gavin warned, reading her much too well. “I want him moldering in a dungeon for the rest of his miserable life.”
That seemed fair enough. Leaving the men to sort out justice, Dillian led the villagers in a water brigade to douse the stable fire.
Since Michael was conspicuously absent, Dillian suspected he occupied himself elsewhere rather than watch the duke and Blanche together.
As the stables smoldered, she ached at the realization that Gavin had deliberately destroyed part of his heritage in saving her. She didn’t know what she could offer him in return.
Blanche brought the terrified staff under control and soon gallons of ale and hot tea poured from the kitchen. Gavin, the duke, and his men disappeared into the study to confer. Dillian wanted to hear what they would do with Dismouth, but garbed in a nightrail, she didn’t have the audacity to join them.
By dawn, the house was once more under control, and Blanche suggested that they take her coach back to London, Dillian didn’t know how to refuse.
To all intents and purposes, the adventure had ended.
Gavin didn’t emerge to say farewell.
Chapter Thirty-nine
For probably the hundred thousandth time in this past month, Dillian sat before the desk in the Grange study, poring over the antique script of dozens of legal papers that the family solicitor had kept from her.
She studied the dates and lined them up in order. She struggled over the legal descriptions, but the terminology meant nothing to her. She’d been told what they meant, but the knowledge wouldn’t sink in. It didn’t make a great deal of sense when laid against her knowledge of her father.
She supposed if dead men could speak, one of them would come back and explain about the games of chance or the dissipation or the just plain incompetence that had led to the original owner parting with these deeds.
She would like someone to explain how her father had acquired them, but her father wasn’t the only gambler in the kingdom. Or perhaps he’d used his military prizes to buy them cheaply from someone in desperate need of funds. She just couldn’t imagine her father doing anything so sensible as sinking his money into land, even if he had any funds, which he seldom did.
She sighed and st
ared blankly at the polished panel wall in front of her. The Grange was such a lovely, peaceful household, she could disappear for hours with no one the wiser. The place practically ran itself. With Blanche in residence, it needed no one else. Dillian was bored out of her mind.
She wouldn’t think about Gavin. He’d taken all the responsibility of turning Dismouth into the authorities. He had also taken responsibility for seeing that the original journals never saw the light of day. The government had only Michael’s decryptions of the code and her father’s lists of evidence.
Michael’s decryptions did not name Neville’s father as Dismouth’s partner in crime. Michael had made certain no stain besmirched the name of Anglesey or Perceval. She thought he protected Blanche more than Neville, but the result was the same.
Actually, with Neville leading the soldiers who arrested Dismouth, the duke came out smelling more like a hero than anyone else. The newspapers had scarcely mentioned the American marquess. Even Winfrey somehow escaped the wrath of government.
Gavin hadn’t bothered explaining anything at all once he’d seen her safe and well at the Grange. He’d disappeared into the murky halls of government, never to be seen again. Dillian didn’t even know if he’d returned to Arinmede.
The last she’d seen of him, they’d stood in the salon of Blanche’s townhouse. He’d brought the Earl of Mellon with him, since Gavin’s cousin Marian had just given birth to the earl’s latest grandchild. Gavin and the earl had exchanged polite pleasantries with Dillian and Blanche, wished them a good journey, and left on their own business. It wasn’t precisely the parting Dillian had anticipated.
She didn’t know what she should have anticipated from a monster like Gavin Lawrence. He had no heart. She’d known that. He couldn’t bed her in front of Blanche and the earl, so he’d shrugged her off just like an old coat. Or cloak. She wanted to run a silver sword through the place where his heart ought to be. Or lower.
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