The Marquess (10 page)

The door to the sitting room drifted open, revealing a
slender, auburn-haired figure in shirtsleeves lounging against the frame.

“You plan on leaving me where? With all this
loveliness?” He winked in Dillian’s direction. “Hello,
she-devil. Found you finally, did he?”

Blanche heard O’Toole’s voice, but the Irish
accent had mysteriously changed. She frowned and remained silent while the
others argued around her.

“I’m not inclined to address foul villains who
abduct helpless women in the middle of the night.” Dillian apparently
ignored the intruder and spoke to the marquess. “I think it best if you
escort the rogue from the room.”

The marquess, as usual, had his own ideas and ignored
Dillian’s waspishness. “Where’s the physician?” he
asked O’Toole.

“I couldn’t very well bring one here now, could
I? Unless you wished to hold him captive, of course. While I find that a
compelling notion, you tend to scowl when I use my own initiative in such a
manner. I didn’t want you frightening the ladies with your scowl, so I
called on Cousin Marian.”

“Marian! What in the name of the devil does Marian
know about burns?”

“Nothing, nodcock, but she knows the best physicians
in London. She’s to ask them the best treatment for a maid who
accidentally set fire to herself. We should hear from her shortly. Marian is
the most efficient of creatures.”

Blanche listened to the marquess grumble under his breath
and felt a surge of irritation. They talked about her eyes while ignoring her
presence. She wanted these bandages off. She wanted to know the extent of the
damages now. While attempting to follow conversations through the medium of her
other senses challenged her, she would much rather look the marquess in the
face when he grumbled like that. She hadn’t had an opportunity to talk to
Dillian alone since the marquess had found her. She wanted to know what the man
looked like.

“Couldn’t I disguise myself as this
Marian’s maid and go with her to the physicians?” Blanche asked.
The notion seemed the most practical one to her.

O’Toole laughed. She wanted to fling something at him.
He was a servant, for pity’s sake. How dared he laugh at his betters?

“London physicians may be quacks, but they’re
not fools, my lady. One look at you, and they’ll know you’re no
maid. And since the duke is tearing the country apart looking for his injured
cousin, they’ll surmise quickly enough who you are. The only reason I
felt safe in asking Marian to do this much is because she and that hard-headed
husband of hers seldom travel in ducal circles, although they could, should
they so desire. She has never met Neville, although she’s ready to take
his spleen out at your command.”

Blanche still didn’t see why she couldn’t
disguise herself as a maid, but she didn’t like causing harm to a lady so
willing to help a stranger. O’Toole’s attitude irked her, however,
and she reprimanded him. “His Grace to you, O’Toole. Whatever
suspicions you may harbor, you have no right speaking of your betters like
that.”

She heard O’Toole start to reply, but Dillian talked
right over him. “Did you bring my lady’s clothing? She cannot
travel to Hampshire dressed in a nightgown.”

“Hampshire?”

“You’re not going to Hampshire yet!”

O’Toole and the marquess responded at the same time.
Again, Blanche noticed, O’Toole gave the floor to the other speaker. She
thought that extremely odd behavior for a smooth-tongued Irishman. But today,
he didn’t seem Irish. With a face and hair like his, he could scarcely be
anything else. Of all the assorted strong characters in this room, his was the
enigma. Yet he was only a footman. Or was he?

Blanche almost missed the marquess’s response while
she pondered the problem.

“There is no sense in traveling to Hampshire if the
estate can’t be protected adequately. If someone is looking for you,
they’re bound to look for you there.”

“I fail to see why we can’t just stay here for
the duration. Who in their right minds would come looking for us here?”
Dillian spoke with irritation.

“I would much rather see that my servants and my home
are safe,” Blanche answered implacably. “I would not impose on Lord
Effingham more than is necessary. We owe him a great debt as it is. I
don’t see why I couldn’t arrive quietly at night and slip in the
back way. No one would need know I’m there but the servants, and they’re
all loyal. I can’t believe anyone would bother us so far out in the
country.”

Her calmness cast a pall over the angrier voices.
O’Toole used the momentary silence to advantage.

“I fear you are wrong in that, my lady. Radicals are
stirring unrest across the country, but I fear it is more than Radicals burning
hayricks near your home. The surrounding countryside is in an uproar. They set
fire to a neighboring barn last night. If someone means you harm, the
atmosphere is perfect for it.”

Even Dillian grew silent as she swallowed that, Blanche
noticed. She had good reason. The estate in Hampshire rightfully belonged to
Dillian as much as to her. They had their own reasons for keeping that quiet.

“Michael, you can stay here with the women,” the
marquess said. “I’ll go investigate. We can’t expect Lady
Blanche to live in this miserable hole until she comes of age. We have to get
to the bottom of this.”

“What do you intend to do, my lord?” Dillian
asked scathingly. “Terrorize them into behaving?”

O’Toole answered for the marquess. “Gavin is a
military hero of sorts. He’ll make an army out of your servants, no
doubt.”

Dillian’s reply was an exceedingly impolite and
unladylike invective. The marquess made a similar comment as he pushed aside
the table and evidently started toward the door. Knowing Dillian’s
thorough condemnation of anything military, Blanche sought some way of defusing
the situation, but she didn’t think fast enough.

Dillian called after the departing marquess. “I’m
going with you!”

“I’ll tie you to a chair first!” was his
reply as he slammed the door after him.

Unable to see her cousin’s face, Blanche could
envision the frustration and fury on it. Dillian not only despised military
men, she didn’t take well to threats. It was a wonder her cousin
hadn’t thrown something after the infuriating marquess.

O’Toole’s comment following the lord’s
departure didn’t surprise Blanche in the least. “Here, let me throw
it for you.”

The unmistakable sound of a teacup smashing against the door
followed.

Again, O’Toole spoke encouragingly. “It was an
abominable piece of porcelain anyway. We wouldn’t want Lady Blanche
encountering such a monstrosity once her bandages are removed would we?
There’s no sense in keeping the saucer now that the cup’s gone, you
know.”

A second angry shattering of fragile porcelain broke the
quiet.

* * * *

“I hate leaving you, Blanche, but I don’t know
what else to do.” Garbed in breeches again, Dillian paced up and down the
floor. The wretched O’Toole had brought only Blanche’s gowns, none
of which fit Dillian. She felt quite certain the aggravating footman had known
of her presence, but he was more concerned with Blanche enticing the marquess
than in seeing Dillian suitably dressed. It didn’t matter. Once she
returned to Hampshire, she could find her own garments.

“I agree with you completely, Dill. You have to go. If
you could find some way of smuggling Verity back here, I would be eternally
grateful, but your idea of pretending I’m in residence at the Grange is
excellent. I just hope you won’t endanger yourself in the process.”

“I’ll pretend Verity is spending night and day
in the chamber, nursing you. She can walk to her mother’s and have one of
her family bring her here by wagon. I don’t know how O’Toole will
get her in here, but I’m sure he’ll think of a way. Are you sure
you’re safe with him? I trust him even less than the beast.”

Dillian watched her cousin with concern. She knew mentally
Blanche denied the possibility of the fire having harmed her vision, but
sometime, they must deal with it. The fact that Blanche could see light gave
hope. A lump of fear formed in Dillian’s throat at the thought of
permanent damage.

She knew how unfair life was, but she had hoped she could
keep her cousin from that knowledge. Words like “virtuous” and “noble”
sprang to mind whenever she thought of Blanche. So few people in this world
could truly claim heroism. Blanche was one of them. She had to protect her
cousin from her own innocence somehow. Leaving her in O’Toole’s
dubious care did not lend itself to her peace of mind.

Blanche tilted her head thoughtfully. “Did you not
think O’Toole Irish?”

“I thought him a rogue and a rascal. That’s
close enough.”

“He didn’t speak like one earlier. He’s
much kinder than the marquess, actually.” Her lips turned upward. “I
particularly liked the smashing china. He seems to know you very well.”

“Yes, well, anyone would want to smash china around a
tyrant like that. I’m certain he’s had plenty of experience in the
matter. Just keep that knife under your pillow. I’ll get Verity here as
soon as possible. Are you certain there are no papers from the Grange that I
need to send back with her?”

Dillian didn’t want to add, “Just in case the
Grange burns, too,” but they both knew what she meant.

Blanche shook her head. “I’ve gone over it and
over it in my head. Most of the papers are at Anglesey with Neville or with my
solicitor. Your father’s journals and things are in London. I keep
nothing at the Grange. We’ve been fortunate.”

Dillian didn’t consider the loss of a house and
serious injuries fortunate, but she held her tongue. Clasping her hand around
the door latch, she cast one last look back at Blanche sitting in the dying
sunlight from the window. She truly hated leaving her. But she didn’t
protect just the Hampshire property by leaving, she protected Blanche’s
life.

“Are you certain you can persuade him to take you?”
Blanche asked anxiously.

“He won’t have any alternative.” With a
determined set of her lips, Dillian slipped from the room.

The Marquess of Effingham really had no clue how persistent
she could be when she applied her mind to it. He should have realized it by
now, but men so easily gave into the prevailing belief of the helplessness of
women. Often enough she cursed the celestial irony that had hidden the steel
trap of her mind behind a small, soft body. But at times like this, the
disguise gave her an advantage.

She slipped out the side door to the stable. Someone had
saddled one of the ancient carriage horses. She wished whoever it was had
harnessed it to the decrepit barouche, but the mighty military man evidently
meant to make good time. That made her duty tougher, but not impossible.

She had reason to be grateful for the inferior quality of
his stable a few minutes later. She couldn’t have saddled anything more
active than the other glue pot the marquess called a carriage horse. Feeding
the animal a handful of oats from a sack, she kept it quiet at the sound of
boots crunching in the gravel. At least he wore boots when he rode.

She would have to follow him fairly closely until she
figured out where she was. She knew the area around the Grange, but the ride
from Blanche’s ruined estate to Hampshire could take a couple of days on
horseback, depending on weather and road conditions. She didn’t know
where Arinmede Manor was located along that route. She didn’t want to get
lost before she even left the county.

She waited until she heard his horse walking down the drive.
She wondered if the beast wore his cloak and hood in the warm May sun or just
contented himself with scowling at the passersby to prevent them from looking
too closely. Personally, she thought his disfigurement more in his head than on
his face, but her opinions didn’t count.

Mounting her passive nag, Dillian cautiously rode it from
the barn. She had never tried riding in breeches and without a sidesaddle
before. It made her oddly uncomfortable, but she wouldn’t worry about it.
She had to find some way of following Effingham without his knowing it.

She went over the wall and rode on the field side of the
trees, letting the marquess think himself alone on the road. She didn’t
know what she would do when she reached planted fields, but his estate seemed
to lie mostly fallow. She could see a few sheep in the distance, but no tenant
farms. She supposed he had his reasons.

Dillian caught glimpses of him through the fence row. He
didn’t wear a gentleman’s long forked-tail riding coat but what
appeared to be an ankle-length canvas coat, similar to a greatcoat without the
layers of capes. She’d never seen such an odd garment, but it would
successfully keep the dust from the road off him. Instead of a tall beaver hat,
he wore a broad-brimmed slouch hat low on his forehead. If he stayed out of
everyone’s direct line of sight, they wouldn’t see much of his
face. She would expect such a strange outfit on someone like the mad
O’Toole, but not on the elegantly aristocratic Marquess of Effingham.
Obviously, he was a creature of many disguises.

Of course, he would choose to ride at night. She
couldn’t keep her horse in the field once it turned dark. As the sun
gradually lowered in the sky. Dillian nervously looked for some alternative.
Neither horse had much inclination for friskiness. They made a steady, even
pace but nothing more. She could safely stay well to the rear unless they came
across a crossroads. If he got too far ahead, she wouldn’t know which
route he took.

Finding a gate, she waited until the marquess disappeared
around a curve before leading her mount back to the road. Trees on both sides threw
the lane into premature darkness. That aided her cause, she supposed, but it
also made her nervous. Visions of highwaymen, looters, and rioters immediately
peopled her imagination. The faceless murderer who had burned Blanche’s
home came next.