Anita Mills (18 page)

“How very noble of you, Ellie”—he smiled wryly— “and how very ridiculous. The Deveraux are no strangers to scandal, and my own reputation is beyond repair in spite of that farradiddle I told you on the road to York. You’ll go with Gerry if I have to throw your clothes on you and carry you out to the carriage myself. And whether it is general knowledge yet or not, we are scandal-bound already, and have been since that night you dropped into my arms. Now, unless you want to see the pig carved before your eyes, you’ll get ready.” To prevent further protest, he turned on his heel and stalked out.

“Gerry, what am I to do? Surely you see that he cannot, that he
must not
suffer for his kindness to me.”

“I’d advise you to get dressed, unless you favor being dressed by a man, my dear, though I admit ’twould be the reverse of what he is used to,” Gerald told her with a grin. “Oh, come on, Ellie. Alex does not do anything he does not want to. Buck up, girl! I can think of dozens of females who’d give anything to be going off with Trent.” He threw open a wardrobe door and began stripping gowns off hangers. “Here”—he shoved one at her—“this looks passable, but you’d best wear a petticoat in addition to the pantalettes, for it gets deuced cold in the coach this time of year.”

They were impossible, the both of them, she decided with a sigh as she shook out the dress. “Gerry, I cannot put this on with you here,” she reminded him.

“I’ll turn my back,” he promised while he deposited several more gowns on the bed coverlet and bent to tie them up. Moving to a bureau, he opened a drawer and dumped its contents on a blanket. “But if it bothers you, my dear, you can go behind those doors.”

“Gerry—”

He finished tying up that bundle and directed his attention to removing the contents of the other wardrobe. “But if you insist on being missish about it, I suppose this will be enough, anyway.” A blast of cold air blew in as he opened the French windows and threw out her clothes. “There. I’ll wait outside if you will hurry,” he murmured while reshutting the windows.

As soon as the door closed behind him, she had the blue gown pulled over her head even as she divested herself of the night rail. In a matter of seconds, she was twitching the hem down to cover her legs before stepping into a pair of lace-trimmed pantalettes.

“Decent, Ellie?” Trent asked as he pushed the door open.

“Much good it would do if I weren’t! Alex, can you never knock and wait?” she complained.

He watched the blush creep becomingly into her cheeks and grinned. “Can’t do the buttons on this one either? Here, turn ’round and I’ll have you done up in a trice.” He reached behind her and began fastening the back of her dress. “But first let’s get your hair out of your gown before it gets all tangled up.” He lifted the thick hair up and let it fall down her back, but did not remove his hand. Almost involuntarily, his fingers traced a. line from the nape of her neck to her earlobe and then tipped her chin up. She had the oddest sensation that he meant to kiss her, and her pulses raced at the thought.

“Ahem,” Gerald cleared his throat diplomatically behind them. “We need to be going and I need to eat something, Alex.
I
did not spend my night dining and flirting.”

Trent watched Ellen stiffen, but he silently thanked his brother for interrupting—Brockhaven’s bedchamber was scarcely the place for a declaration. He chucked her under the chin in a brotherly gesture. “Quite right, Gerry. Do not forget warm bricks when you stop by the house.”

“And you, Alex, if both carriages are gone—”

“I’ll purloin one of Brockhaven’s nags and ride it home.”

“All right. Come on, Ellie. I mean to raid the larder while the bricks are warming.” Gerald took her by the arm and propelled her purposefully toward the hall. “If we are fortunate, Trent’s cook will make us up a basket to take along.”

Alex watched them from the window as they left the house below, and then he turned back to Brockhaven’s bedchamber. Divesting himself of his coat, his neckcloth, and his shoes, he pulled a wing chair up to the window and helped himself to a decanter of the baron’s Madeira. Sipping pensively, he waited for the London sun to come up. His head was remarkably clear for his having been up all night, and he felt at ease for the first time in weeks. An odd smile played at the corners of his mouth as he let his thoughts wander to Ellen Marling. If anyone had told him three months before that he would be caught by the merest dab of a female … No, not true, he decided— she was not a mere anything, she was a truly extraordinary female. Still, it was hard to credit—he’d certainly fought admitting it—but it was true. Neither the Mantini nor any of the other pleasures of London had been able to keep her out of his thoughts since he’d returned to town. Not even the most reckless pursuit of bachelor pastimes could blur the memory of the dark-haired, violet-eyed girl he’d shared such an adventure with. If only there weren’t Brockhaven, he’d marry her in a trice and count himself the most fortunate of fellows.

He finished his drink and put aside the decanter and glass. He could afford nothing less than a clear head at this point. Reaching for his foil, he sat back and flexed the long, thin blade against the palm of his hand. He wasn’t even sure what he meant to do with Brockhaven. Now, if the man had dared to touch her, the choice would have been made: the baron’s life would be forfeit. But Gerald was right: killing a man to get his wife would ensure scandal. And a divorce would be disastrous. An annulment would be best, of course, but then it would be difficult to get a pompous fool like Brockhaven to admit to the world that he’d never bedded his young wife.

He was still mulling over the possibilities when he heard the baron below trying to rouse his household. He leaned back in the wing chair and waited, savoring the thought of the impending meeting. The next few minutes would determine his future, and he was ready.

After persistent knocking failed to bring any servants, Brockhaven had to let himself into the house. Oddly, there was no sign of anyone in the hall nor in the kitchen. Hmmmm—it must be earlier than he’d thought, he decided as he weaved his way upstairs. His thoughts too turned to Ellen Marling and a sense of injury came over him. It seemed that his encounters with her were never to live up to his expectations. Even now, instead of welcoming him as her savior after Trent had discarded her, the chit flung insults at him! He stopped at a mirror in the upstairs hall and tried to make out his reflection in the dimly illuminated mirror. How dare she make such remarks about his dress!

He turned sideways to study his rose-point tapestry coat with its exaggerated swallow tails and then held it open to admire the robin’s-egg blue satin lining. No, he was as fine as fivepence, he consoled himself.

He moved on to his bedchamber, satisfied with his good taste. It suddenly occurred to him that there was no sign of the ever-present valet hovering about to help him undress. And as he walked into the room, he could see out of the corner of his eye that the door to Ellen’s makeshift cell was open. He
knew
he’d locked it before he’d left. If one of those incompetents in his household had taken pity on the girl, he’d turn him off in a trice. He pushed his door wider and was totally unprepared for the scene of devastation and disorder that greeted him. Bedclothes were torn off the bed, drawers had been ransacked, and wardrobe doors hung open with empty hangers dangling off them.

“Ellen,” he called out in alarm. “Ellen!”

Black-clad legs swung around the side of the wing chair as the Marquess of Trent righted himself with his steel-bladed foil bent into a bow between his hands. Towering over the stunned Brockhaven, he asked softly, “Tell me, Sir Basil, have you ever seen a hog butchered?”

“Milord!” Brockhaven goggled as he backed toward the door.

“Your servant, Baron,” Trent acknowledged with a mocking bow. “Well, have you?”

“What?”

“Seen a hog butchered?” Trent released the point of his blade and brought it to rest against the baron’s quivering fat stomach. “Dear me, do you call this hideous thing a waistcoat, Basil? I find it offensive in the extreme.” With a slight flick of his wrist, he deftly removed one of the buttons of the garment in question, causing it to fly off. “Ah, definitely offensive.” Another button sailed off and pinged against a windowpane. “Do let me help you out of it,” he murmured as he flipped off the last one.

“W-what t-the d-devil d’ye think you are d-doing?” Brockhaven whimpered while beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead.

Trent raised his blade to the base of the baron’s earlobe. The point pricked and drew blood. Brockhaven squirmed as he felt a warm rivulet trickle down his neck and disappear into his neckcloth. He wet his lips nervously and stared helplessly at the marquess.

“But I return to our earlier conversation, dear Basil. I have only seen it once,” Trent went on, “and I have never forgotten the scene. You see, they …” He paused briefly to dig the blade against Brockhaven’s ear. “They slit its throat from ear to ear, and then they hang it upside down until all the blood drains out. Have you ever been hung by your heels, Brockhaven?”

“Wh-what do you w-want?” the baron’s voice croaked and cracked.

“You trespassed, Basil. I cannot allow that to go unchallenged.”

“You had my wife!”

“Not your wife, Brockhaven—the lady you forced to wed you,” Trent pointed out reasonably. “Not the same thing at all. She doesn’t want to be your wife—she never did. And I do not wish to see her do anything she does not wish to.”

“But she married me!”

The blade moved lightly along the fold of Brockhaven’s chin, drawing blood in its wake. The baron closed his eyes and swayed in terror, too afraid to move and too afraid to stay.

“You definitely have too many chins, Sir Basil. I wonder, perhaps you would look better without one of them,” Trent mused aloud.

“For God’s sake, Trent!”

“I may be forced to take your life, Brockhaven.”

“No.” It was a bare croak. “F-for the love of G-God!”

“For the love of the woman you call your wife, Basil. I want Ellen Marling. Tell me how I am to get her with you alive and I will listen.” The blade reached Brockhaven’s other ear, leaving an ugly scratch across his throat. “Well?”

“I-I-I’ll d-divorce her! I will, I-I swear! I’ll put up the b-bill myself!”

Trent appeared to consider and then shook his head. “No,” he decided finally, “I don’t think so. Too much of a scandal, you know, and I am afraid I cannot allow her to be publicly embarrassed.”

“B-but I’ll be a b-bigger embarrassment dead,” the baron expostulated. “You cannot murder a man for his wife in England, sir.”

“Can’t I?” Trent asked softly. “I would not be so sure, my dear baron. But you could be right. I might consider letting you keep your miserable existence if you seek an annulment.”

“An annulment!” Brockhaven said the word with such indignation that Trent felt compelled to increase the pressure on the blade tip until the baron capitulated. “All right,” Brockhaven muttered finally with a mouth almost too dry for speech.

Trent dropped the rapier tip to rest against his own thigh and stepped back. His eyes were mercilessly cold as he nodded curtly to Brockhaven to sit. The baron dropped heavily into the nearest chair and grasped the wine decanter, uncorking it and drinking straight from the bottle to wet his mouth. He wiped his full lips with the back of his hand and eyed the rapier to ensure that it was well out of range. “I don’t see what you want with her, my lord. She must’ve shown you more than she showed me. She ain’t exactly in your style,” he sneered nastily.

“We are not here to discuss her,” Trent interrupted coldly. “I believe the subject was an annulment.”

“Annulment—divorce—what difference?”

“Because when I marry her, Brockhaven, I do not wish her to live under any more scandal than necessary. With a divorce, people might intimate that things are not exactly as they should be.”

Brockhaven forgot himself and lurched forward with a start. “Marry her!” He nearly choked on the words. “You are a bigger fool then than I have heard, sir! Marry your mistress?”

The blade arched swiftly up and pricked the baron’s stomach. “I will say this one time and one time only,” Trent bit off each word precisely. “Ellen Marling has never been my mistress and never will be. I intend to make her my marchioness—with your blood on my hands, if need be. Let me remind you”—he dug the point uncomfortably into the fat man’s corset—“I can disembowel you easily with one quick turn of my wrist, and I should enjoy doing it. Now, the choice is yours: an annulment and your total silence on the matter, or a period to your existence.”

“I said I’d give you what you want.” Brockhaven shrank back against his chair in alarm. “I will!” The blade was lifted and he fell limp with relief. “I should have taken the younger one, anyway,” he muttered.

“No, I don’t think it wise.” Trent shook his head. “For it was for the younger one that she was brought to sacrifice herself. You will find someone totally unknown to Ellen Marling to spare her the pain of thinking herself somehow responsible for another female’s suffering.” Trent reached across Sir Basil and picked up the decanter. Moving to fill the glass he’d used earlier, he poured himself a drink and pulled up a chair facing the baron. Taking a sip, he leaned forward and fixed the baron with those cold eyes. “Remember, I have a damnable temper when I am lied to. Breathe a word of this to anyone and I will be compelled to finish what I came here to do this morning. Say even one disparaging word about her to anyone and you are a dead man. Attempt to see her again and your miserable life is forfeit. And should the occasion arise that you ever meet in society, you will meet her direct, be pleasant, and move on. Do you quite understand me, sir?”

Brockhaven shuddered and looked away before nodding. “Aye, I understand, but you cannot keep the
ton
from talking, my lord. Do not be blaming me for what is said— you cannot escape the scandal even if my lips are sealed. People will want to know why I am seeking an annulment.”

Trent appeared absorbed in buttoning the stud at his wrist and adjusting his sleeve. “I believe consumption to be your best explanation, Sir Basil. ’Twill be said merely that you wished for a healthy heir.”