Rebel Marquess (10 page)

Before he rode off, Rutherford reminded him, “Do not forget to report your own robbery to the magistrate. If you are to get your valuables returned when the thieves have a change of heart, the authorities will need to know what has been stolen.”

Grimm waved his hand in acknowledgement but said nothing.

“Perhaps we should have handled this without him,” Whitely speculated as they watched their friend ride away.

“He will be fine,” Rutherford assured. “We have been through enough over the years to know there is no need to doubt him.”

Whitely chuckled. “Remember the time we rode from London to Oxford with three cases of smuggled French wine?”

Rutherford nodded and a smile crept to his lips as he turned his horse around and the men started in the opposite direction. “I will never forget it. We never would have gotten the stuff into the dormitory if not for Grimm’s brilliant distraction.”

Whitely guffawed. “The brightest moon I’ve ever seen.”

Chapter Eight

Eliza lifted her eyes from the paper and glanced out the attic window with an unfocussed gaze. She did not see the fog-covered London neighborhood stretched before her. She saw Sir Randolph marching with stark determination across a blackened field of battle. Bodies—bloodied and broken—littered the ground. His helmet swung from his hand, dented and cracked.

She tapped the end of her pencil against her bottom lip.

“Why is he still there? What is he looking for?” she murmured out loud. Still gazing out the window, she narrowed her gaze to a slit and willed the moon to appear.

Torn standards flew over the battlefield. Tired, loyal war horses devoid of their riders stomped their heavy hooves in the mud. Ominous clouds drifted past the glowing night orb, momentarily darkening the landscape.

Sir Randolph appeared again in her mind’s eye, standing solitary in the wasted field. But his appearance had altered. He no longer wore the armor of a medieval warrior. He was now in the garb of a highwayman. The shadow of his felt hat shielded his face from the moonlight. Eliza wished he would lift his chin so she could discern his features.

“Lizzie.”

Eliza turned from the battlefield scene to scowl over her shoulder at the attic door. She sighed with relief as she saw she had remembered to lock it.

“Lizzie!” The plaintive voice was followed by a rattle of the doorknob and then a harried knock.

“Mother, I am writing. I do not wish to be disturbed.” Her mother knew full well what the locked door signified.

A long-suffering sigh resounded from beyond the door. “Lizzie, I need to speak with your father. Do you know where he is? I cannot find him anywhere.”

He was likely ensconced in his usual hiding place. A small corner of the townhouse where he preferred to go when he needed some peace and quiet. Or when he simply wished to avoid her mother. Eliza suspected it was not easy for him as the only male in a family of so many females. As far as Eliza knew, she was the only member of the family who had discovered her father’s little retreat. She had kept his secret in full understanding of his need to escape every now and then.

The attic was her escape. Years ago, she had had the place swept free of any spiders who may have taken up residence—she could not stand the creatures—and had cleared a small place for herself in front of the windows. A large rug covered the floor and a wide cushioned bench was set in the alcove of the eaves where she could sit and gaze out over the city. A large wooden chest, which sometimes served as a table, contained enough paper and ink to get her through a decade or more of writing.

“Lizzie!”

Eliza sighed and cast a sad glance out the window, but the battlefield had been replaced by the never-ending stretch of townhouses and paved streets.

“Have you checked the cellar?”

“The cellar? Why on earth would he be in the cellar?” Her mother’s voice faded away as she turned from the door to descend the narrow steps. Eliza’s false direction should give her father a bit more time to himself.

Now where was she?

Oh yes, Sir Randolph on the battlefield. Or was it a mysterious highwayman with the manner and bearing of a gentleman?

In the three days since the adventure on the road back to London, Eliza had revisited her memories of the robbery a million times. Something about the mounted thief who had stolen a kiss rather than her grandmother’s pearls had snagged on a corner of her consciousness and could not be freed.

In the moment when he had drawn her to him by the steady grip of his hand at her nape, Eliza could swear she’d caught a scent of spiced citrus. The scent was distinctive and caused a flash of acute recognition. And when he had leaned forward, the touch of his lips had been warm and direct. With no apology, no entreaty. It had been exactly the kind of kiss she would have expected from the marquess—straight-forward, self-assured and far too devastating. In those long seconds as the highwayman’s lips had brushed gently over hers, to her mind it had been Rutherford kissing her.

Which was entirely ridiculous.

Setting her pencil and notebook on the cushioned bench beside her, Eliza kicked off her shoes and drew her feet beneath her skirts as she gazed out the window. Her sigh was heavy and thoughtful.

She was almost prepared to admit to herself that she could very well be developing an infatuation with the marquess. For some reason, she even found his boorish nature endearing. And the day at Silverly, when she had challenged his masculine pride and he had nearly kissed her, she had been more than willing to accept the retaliation he intended.

Her cheeks grew warm just thinking about it.

Yes, she could admit she had wanted the marquess to kiss her. She had often replayed that moment in her mind with an entirely different ending. But surely her imagination had gotten away from her if she was so easily able to place him in the boots of a highway thief. The idea of the exalted Marquess of Rutherford donning common garb and sneaking through the woods to steal the jewels of unsuspecting travelers was simply laughable.

She glanced down at her notebook with a mild grimace. Perhaps her mother was right and she was spending too much time in the worlds of her imagination.

As soon as the thought formed, Eliza dashed it away.

Nonsense.

She reached for the notebook again and found the page where she had left off. Her writing was the one thing that kept her sane and filled her with a sense of purpose that went beyond her daily existence. And whatever had happened to her since encountering the marquess in his bedroom, one certain result had been an increase in ready inspiration for her current project.

Eliza stood with punch in hand, waiting for the crush of people in the ballroom to shift just enough to allow her a little space to breathe. It was the seventh such event in the last two weeks she had attended on her mother’s insistence. Lady Terribury had scoured their invitations to carefully accept only those she thought would be the most likely to produce an encounter with Lord Rutherford.

Unfortunately, he had not deigned to attend a single one. There was one party two nights ago when Lady Terribury swore she saw him through the crowd. By the time they made it to the spot where she thought she had seen him, there was no sign he had ever been there at all. Then again, in such crushing crowds, he could be five paces away and one might not ever know it.

Which was just fine with Eliza.

Since the Blackbourne party, her mother had doubled her motivation in seeing Eliza matched with the marquess. As Eliza had feared, the fact that Rutherford had taken her to the dance floor in a waltz had convinced Lady Terribury that this time she had a solid chance at gaining the top prize. Her mother didn’t even bother compelling Eliza to garner interest from any other suitors.

This was also perfectly fine with Eliza since it meant she was free to dance with men whose company interested her, and she was not forced to engage in idle chit-chat with someone simply because they met her mother’s standards of a good match.

And since Lord Rutherford had proven himself to be exceptionally good at evading her mother at every turn, Eliza decided not to worry so much about her mother’s ambition and to enjoy her evenings as best she could. Not an easy task when she was packed so tightly into the gas-lit drawing room she couldn’t turn around without stepping on someone’s foot.

Eliza sighed and sipped the last of her punch. Considering the effort it had taken to shoulder through the crowd to the refreshment table in the first place, she had hoped it would last a bit longer. Without the cooling effects of the effervescent drink, she swiftly felt overwhelmed by the crushing heat. She would have fanned herself, but her elbows were pinned to her sides. Someone jostled her from behind and she was barely able to keep her footing. She had a horrible flashing vision of being trampled in the crowd of guests. One small slip and she would disappear beneath an ocean of silk, satin and lace.

Her lungs started to feel tight. She lifted her chin in an effort to draw a clear breath, but she felt a strange panic twist in her chest. She looked around, and as if by a stroke of providence, the crowd suddenly thinned enough for her to catch sight of open terrace doors.

“Mother, I am going to catch some air. I will be back.”

“What? Lizzie, where are you going?” Lady Terribury asked but Eliza had already put several steps between them and the space had immediately been filled by other milling guests. She could not find the motivation to worry about her mother right now. The panic was spreading out from her chest, making her legs feel unstable as she pushed past people standing as oblivious obstacles between her and the fresh air she knew awaited her outside.

It may have taken ten minutes or twenty to reach the doors, but to Eliza it felt like half a life time. When she finally stepped out onto the terrace, she pressed her hands to her abdomen and drew in deep breaths like an ocean diver coming up for air. Slowly, the panic started to recede and Eliza realized she was not the only one to escape the confines of the house in search of open air. Perhaps a dozen other guests milled about on the terrace.

To avoid the curious glances being cast her way, she strolled away from the drawing room doors. The Southwicks were old friends of the Terribury family, and she was familiar with the terrace and gardens from previous visits. Not ready to return to the oppressive atmosphere indoors, she recalled a lovely enclosed gazebo in the corner of the walled garden. It was the perfect place to restore herself away from speculative gazes.

She strode to the stairs at the far end of the terrace, grateful that this part of the garden was beyond the reach of illumination from the party. Once in the shadows, she quickened her steps and sped across the lawn. The cool grass dampened her slippers but the night air was mild and welcoming after the cloying heat of the drawing room.

She reached the arched entrance of the gazebo and saw the small structure was unlit and blessedly unoccupied. Four deep cushioned benches lined the outer walls and in each of the corners stood a small flowering tree. Graceful potted ferns sat on stands of varying heights in the spaces between, filling the shadows with lush greenery. It was the perfect place to share secret confidences with a dear friend or to spend a rainy day with a good book. Eliza imagined this was the reason for having the gazebo enclosed with windows rather than being left open to the elements. The light of the moon created a dark and dreamy mosaic as it filtered gently through the stained glass that graced the upper window panels.

Eliza settled gratefully into the corner of one bench beneath the low hanging branch of a potted magnolia tree. The exotic tree was flowering and the scent of the blooms filled the gazebo. The scene was so lovely and so far removed from the constant socializing her mother had insisted on over the last weeks that Eliza decided to be selfish and claim as many peaceful minutes as possible. Her mother would come in search of her sooner or later and would likely be furious when she found Eliza hiding here. But until then, Eliza intended to make the most of her momentary solitude.

Slipping off her damp slippers, she drew her feet up onto the bench and reached above her head to finger the velvet petals of a purple magnolia.

Such an exotic flower, lush and lovely. The petals were strong but so soft to the touch. The rich, vibrant color could be seen even in the darkness. Inspiration sparked and Eliza’s thoughts twisted back into the realm of her imagination, and she saw the figure of her errant knight turned mysterious highwayman.

What had begun as a medieval tale about a knight with a scarred soul and lost loyalties had grown into something else entirely. And she blamed it solely in the enigmatic gentleman thief. He had been too intriguing and contradictory in nature. His persona exuded mystery and romantic intrigue.

But he needed something, or someone, to disrupt his cloaked obscurity and force him from the anonymous safety of the night. A woman.

Eliza plucked the magnolia from the branch and cradled it in her palm as she studied it a bit closer.

The highwayman’s lady needed to represent a perfect balance to his shadowed and covert nature. A woman as blatantly innocent of vice and immorality as he was guilty of it?

How would he encounter such a gentle lady in the dark of night on a country road?