What the Marquess Sees

by Amy Quinton

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  His hands tightened in reflex, and his cock hardened in his breeches. This was it. This was the news he’d been eager to hear.

  “Enter.”

  He was proud his voice conveyed patience and self-assurance. He knew it was so. He was nothing if not confident in himself.

  The turncoat entered the room and stood before the table, his hat in his hands. A sign of respect. Good.

  The cloaked man forced his hands to relax and not clench in anticipation of the news this man carried. He studied the man before him. Took time to note his stance and appearance. He’d always considered himself good at reading people. And he knew making his hirelings wait worked to increase their anxiety. It was a calculated trick.

  The traitor had a peculiar smirk on his face. One the cloaked man did not like at all. It caused him to lose a bit of his self-control. That was his excuse for blurting out, “Out with it. What happened? Spare no detail.” He rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation, losing all sense of his need to demonstrate patience.

  “Aye, well. He saw it, and he was angry,” the conspirator replied.

  The cloaked man stopped rubbing his hands. That was it? “Just angry?”

  “Weel, irate, then. Er, absolutely crazed with anger.”

  “But just angry? Not worried? Scared? Or better yet, terrified?” He tried desperately not to sound too fervent, but he was quite quickly growing alarmingly frustrated. Yet at the same time, he still salivated over the idea of causing Dansbury fear. He’d dreamt of it. It must have happened that way. It couldn’t be any other way.

  “Oh, aye. He was most definitely terrified.”

  The cloaked man grinned. Ah yes. Of course. It was exactly as he’d imagined. He practically drooled over the thought. He nearly allowed himself to get caught up in his fantasy of how Dansbury must have looked, drowning in his fear. He cleared his mind. Later, he’d allow his mind its freedom to imagine the scene. Over and over again. When he was alone.

  He narrowed his eyes on the man before him.

  Was there a touch of humor in his eyes? Was the man playing with him?

  He looked harder, but the man blanked his face, hiding his thoughts. A skill he also employed when needed.

  “So where are they headed now? Do you know?”

  “Aye. I do.”

  “Of course. Excellent. So? Out with it.”

  “They’re headed to his aunt’s estate. Lady Harriett. Just outside Bath.”

  “You know this, how?”

  “I know Clifford Ross.”

  Chapter 28

  “Nothing weighs on us so heavily as a secret.”

  ― Jean de La Fontaine

  Bloomfield Place

  Country Home of Lady Harriett Ross, Dansbury’s Aunt

  Near Bath, England

  One Day Later…

  Lady Harriett Ross, Dansbury’s aunt, was a delightful, loveable…dragon. Indeed, she was colorful and wiry and altogether far too outspoken. Yea, candid was her middle name and today was no exception. In fact, Dansbury entered her drawing room with more than a little hesitation about what to expect from her unpredictable tongue. He traveled with a notorious woman. Without chaperone. Surely, she’d have something to say about that.

  “Well, you fool, it’s about time you bothered to come see me. I didn’t think you’d simply run off and hide, but I was beginning to wonder.”

  Ah. He was delighted to know he wouldn’t be disappointed.

  He bent to kiss her cheek. “And how do you know we were running anywhere?” He said it with a smile in his eyes and laughter in his voice despite the seriousness of his question. Between their assumed traitor and Aunt Harriett, did everyone know what they were about? It was an alarming thought to contemplate.

  “Um, well, I don’t know…let me see.” She held up her hands to tick off her points, sarcasm all but dripping from her lips. “One. You send me an urgent missive telling me to retire to Bloomfield Place with all haste. In the middle of the season, no less.” She took a moment to lean forward and adjust the pillow behind her, then sat back and continued reciting her list. “Two. Lady Beatryce and Stonebridge disappointed more than a thousand guests waiting at St. George’s to witness THE wedding of the season. A grand, ducal wedding…those don’t happen often, you know. And without so much as a single, reasonable or even gossip-inducing explanation for calling it all off. I was there, you know, though I can’t say I was disappointed. Stonebridge isn’t the man for our gel; his heart belongs to someone else, as we all know.”

  She threw him a knowing look, while Beatryce sat across from him and chuckled lightly. Aunt Harriett looked over at Bea and winked. Winked!?

  And what was her meaningful look supposed to imply? And for that matter, what did she mean by “our gel”? Had Aunt Harriett finally lost her wits? Since when was Beatryce “our gel”? He ignored the traitorous voice that shouted she’s my gel in the deepest recess of his mind.

  “Third.” She continued, as if she hadn’t just been sending odd and confusing signals with her eyes. “Lady Beatryce all but disappears from society and does not attend her own father’s funeral.” She looked over at Bea again and added, “Not that I blame you, mind. In fact, I applaud your strength. I wouldn’t have gone either, were I you. Why your stepmother even bothered to attend was beyond me. She could barely keep a straight face the entire time, or so I’m told…I didn’t go either, I must admit. But from what I have heard, she kept having to stifle her laughter. I can only imagine why.”

  Bea looked stunned.

  “Anyway, I can only assume…” Aunt Harriett paused then and took a sip of her coffee. She cleared her throat. “Now, then, need I say more?”

  Dansbury shook his head as he said, “No ma’am.” He wasn’t surprised at her conclusions for she was a clever and precocious woman. More to the point, he was curious to know what she had intended to say, but didn’t. What did she assume? He would normally question her on it. They were used to being frank with each other. But this time…

  He looked over at Bea, who was still sitting there, stunned, likely over Aunt Harriett’s praise of her strength. Which was spot on, though she probably didn’t realize it. Or, more likely, didn’t expect others to realize it. He was ashamed to note that he’d never noticed. Perhaps that had been her intention?

  And why should he have noticed? She had more than a few character flaws that overshadowed that strength.

  Aunt Harriett cleared her throat again, then sighed a definite sigh of resignation. Her tone was far more subdued when she spoke. He’d never heard her speak with such a tone; it prompted him to sit up and take note. This was important.

  “I suppose I knew this day would come. Though I dare say, I had hoped it would not.” She stared into her coffee cup while she spoke. As if the darkened liquid would offer some sort of assistance or guidance. He grew alarmed at her unusual, pensive behavior.

  “Auntie…perhaps we should speak of this in private.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she was going to say. The child in him didn’t want to lose his ignorance. And he knew whatever she had to say would change his life forever. Did he want Bea to be here to witness such an event?

  Aunt Harriett looked up, surprised. Her voice held its usual strength. “Pshaw. That gel deserves to know. You need her to know. She can handle it. The question is, can you?”

  He stood on impulse. Surprised she would question his fortitude. Never mind his own earlier doubts.

  “Oh, sit down, boy. You know I don’t really doubt you for a moment. I was just trying to make a point.”

  Aunt Harriett placed her coffee cup back on the table before her, then sat back and gathered the edges of her colorful shawl. Her wrap was bright orange, and crocheted; she didn’t care for knitting. It was so her, and he smiled a moment with fondness despite the seriousness of their conversation. She certainly was a colorful lady. Her orange shawl complemented her ginger hair. And her green and violet dress was most…
uncommon. She had a turban on her head, in pink. He shook his head with fondness.

  Yea. Aunt Harriett certainly liked to make a statement. And it fit her personality to perfection. It felt like home, seeing her dressed with her usual flair. And he allowed that thought to ease his mind somewhat.

  He retook his seat as she began talking.

  “First, I want you to know that your mother was everything that was kind. I loved her like a daughter. Like a best friend. Like a sister. All of them rolled up in one. Her death brought me more grief than I could ever have imagined. You, dear boy, and your need of someone, was the only thing that kept me from wallowing away in my own sorrow. You needed me. Hmmm. We needed each other.”

  She put a hand on his knee and squeezed before pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbling at her eyes. “Forgive me.”

  There was nothing to forgive. He knew she knew that. He waited while she composed herself once again. He felt his own eyes burning, but he ignored the sensation. And he couldn’t speak; his throat was closed up tight. He held a taut leash on his control as he braced himself to hear this story. His family’s story. His history.

  It wasn’t long before she continued; she was the perfect example of a woman with superior inner strength. It was no wonder she’d recognized the like in Lady Beatryce.

  “M-my brother, on the other hand, was…” She sighed as she seemed to search for the right words to use. “…misguided. He was a man of strong, moral character…else your mother would never have married him…but sometimes…” She struggled with her words, and he was amazed. Aunt Harriett was never tongue-tied. “Well, sometimes things happen. Conflict. Horrible things that should never be, but happen anyway…God only knows why.”

  Aunt Harriett reached for her reticule on the seat beside her and pulled out a miniature painting, faded and worn. She handed it to him with obvious hesitation. He looked down to see an infant with a thick crop of wavy, blond hair. The hairs on his arms stood on end.

  “You see, your father and mother had a son. Born a few years before you. His name was George.”

  He stood at the news, stunned, still holding the likeness of the brother he’d never met. He’d never known. He’d never heard an inkling of this news. He began to pace the floor. This time, Aunt Harriett didn’t ask him to sit, as if she knew he needed to walk this off. His emotions were churning…dread being the predominate mood that now flooded his veins.

  “Your mother hired a nursemaid for him, a girl she knew from the nearby village. A-an Irish girl…”

  Beatryce gasped while trepidation churned within him. The Society was against anyone not born of England…especially the Irish. Oh, he now knew where this was headed, as did Bea. And it was awful.

  “I don’t know if we’ll ever know what really happened. But your brother was killed. He was only t-two.”

  Aunt Harriett took a deep breath.

  “Your father blamed this young Irish woman. I don’t know if she was guilty—if his accusations were true. Perhaps she was. Or maybe he was led to believe she was through the poisoned words of others. For sure, George was in her care when the accident occurred…” Aunt Harriett sighed again. Words were difficult to speak. She would have mourned his loss as well; George was her nephew, after all. She swallowed and continued on, “She’d seemed such a sweet soul, but then she fled, making her guilt seem obvious to those who wanted to believe it.”

  “You sound like you don’t believe it.” He couldn’t believe he’d found his voice.

  “I honestly don’t know. But what matters is that your father did. It broke him. Made him act out of character. The next thing we knew, he was involved with this group of men who seemed to fuel that hatred toward all things Irish. Her family was run out of town; their house was burned to the ground, their belongings with it. And months later, we heard that they had all been murdered. Among them, your brother’s nurse.

  “No one tried very hard to investigate the matter, and your mother was heartbroken all over again. You see, she never doubted the nurse’s innocence, but there was no convincing your father once his friends had got ahold of him.”

  Aunt Harriett paused to take another sip of her coffee. The silence in the air was thick with tension. Dansbury struggled to come to terms with his own chaotic thoughts.

  Aunt Harriett placed her cup back on the table, and started again. He had no more words.

  “I’m sure you realize this was the beginning of our family’s involvement in the Secret Society for the Purification of England, though I didn’t know it at the time. And I didn’t know the extent of their hatred towards other nationalities. I thought it was all political posturing. There were whispers, of course, but I was still naïve and didn’t think men were capable of such atrocities.

  “Your mother never condoned his behavior from that moment on. But your father was determined and all but blind to reason. And I’m ashamed to say, it greatly influenced your brother, Edward…He was at the perfect age for it.”

  God. Edward. It all made sense, and he hated that it did.

  “By the time you came along, your father was deeply involved and as angry as ever. Angrier even. And your mother was well aware of the influence his behavior was having on Edward, but by the time she realized it, it was too late. Besides, he was the heir. Your father was particularly involved in Edward’s upbringing. Grooming him to one day take his place. As one might expect, of course. But you mother…she was determined not to let the same thing happen to you, so she shielded you as best she could from it all.”

  Aunt Harriett paused a moment to collect her thoughts again. He didn’t know how much more he wanted to hear. Eventually she continued, smiling softly now, “Around the time you turned seven, your father started to show signs of softening. A comment here. A kindness there. It could have been his age. Maybe your mother’s kindness had finally gotten through to him.” She looked directly at him. “Or maybe it was you—you were such a charming boy, even then.”

  She smiled at him with watery eyes. Lost for a moment in more pleasant memories. It didn’t last.

  She frowned as she continued, “But your brother, Edward, he was at that age. Not a boy. Not quite a man, but believing he was…that he knew it all. He was fully indoctrinated in his hatred toward the Irish. It was too late, by then, to turn him around. At least, not at his age.

  “Then, your father began acting strange. Paranoid. This is when I started to believe all the dirty rumors about the Society. I believe your father was prepared to talk about it to the authorities. To tell them all he knew.

  “They left you with me, when they began their fateful trip. I still don’t even know why. Nor where they were going. Or even why they were going. It made no sense to me, but what was I to say?

  “And of course, they never returned. They all died on that boat crossing the channel. I didn’t even know they were planning to go to France. It was all so very peculiar.”

  Dansbury’s shoulders sagged as she reached the end of her tale. It was a lot to take in. It was almost unreal, like they were discussing someone else’s family. Not his. All his beliefs about his family were shattered, though in hindsight, the cracks were always there.

  He heard Aunt Harriett shuffle about, but he had his back to her. He couldn’t look at either her or Bea while he digested all he’d learned. Aunt Harriett sighed again, and the hairs on the back of his neck lifted in warning. He turned and started walking back toward his seat. Toward Aunt Harriett, a warning beating in his heart with every step.

  What could be worse than all she’d revealed so far?

  “But that’s not all. When you were two, your mother bore another child. A girl.”

  That.

  He collapsed in his chair. Grateful he’d been standing in front of it. He knew there was more to come. Something monumental. He rested his head in his hands, but listened carefully.

  “Your father thought she was stillborn. Everyone thought so.

  “But…she wasn’t. Your m-m
other…” Aunt Harriett let out a gasped cry then. She quickly caught her breath, and in a rush added, “…f-found a way to secret her away to an orphanage in America. F-Forever. Without any way to ever s-see her again…”

  Aunt Harriett sobbed then, great heaving sobs. Dansbury fell to his knees at her feet and enveloped her in his arms. She buried her face in his cravat and wailed between gasps for air. She shuddered and he squeezed her tighter.

  “I’m s-sorry,” she managed, “I thought I could say it and remain composed…”

  He rubbed her back as he held her tight. “Nonsense, Auntie. Don’t ever apologize.”

  She shuddered some more and he felt powerless. Never mind his own emotions, churning just beneath the surface. He was near to the breaking point himself. He looked over her shoulder to Bea.

  Bea was sitting straight and tall. Regal, as any Queen. Her chin was tilted up, just slightly, and her hands were gripped tightly together in her lap, making her knuckles turn white.

  But what made his breath catch was the sight of her tears streaming down her face.

  It broke him.

  Chapter 29

  “I have no other but a woman’s reason; I think him so, because I think him so.”

  ―Shakespeare, The Two Gentlemen of Verona

  Bloomfield Park…

  Beatryce’s Room…

  The Next Day…

  She would never forget the sight of Dansbury crying. She knew as sure as she knew her own name that the sight would be forever emblazoned in her mind. After yesterday’s revelations, she, too, felt heavy and emotional. Lethargic even. And drained. Her throat was sore and her jaw ached from clenching it for far too long. She imagined Dansbury felt much worse.

  This. This was the aftermath of grief.

  To think of that poor, young woman, for Dansbury’s sister was a woman now. Growing up orphaned, possibly feeling unloved. And his mother. Oh, how she must have grieved, yet at the same time, she had to have had the strength of ten normal men to go through with what she had to do.

  Even though she’d never felt the motherly type, Beatryce could imagine how difficult it must have been for his mother to give up her child, her only daughter. It was heartbreaking to ponder, for it was all both a blessing and a curse, wasn’t it? For everyone involved.