The Marquess (16 page)

As she sat there waiting, she debated means of returning the
marquess to society. It was quite apparent that he needed Blanche. She had
opposed the match from the first, but now she understood the sense of it. The
irritating O’Toole had it right. Effingham could take care of Blanche the
way she should be taken care of. The marquess would love her as everyone did.
And Blanche had a loving nature. She would love any man who would accept her as
she was.

The perfection of the match satisfied Dillian, even though
she felt a nagging sense of loss at the thought. It would be lonely without
Blanche, she supposed, but she would find other interests in time. She would
involve herself in village activities. Perhaps she could solve the farmers’
grievances. Maybe she would even fall in love with the vicar. Anything was
possible.

The gray light of dawn spread across the horizon before the
marquess finally took advantage of her invitation and heaved himself across the
windowsill. Dillian thought he looked weary as he closed the casement and
leaned against the wall farthest from where she sat. He still wore his cloak,
but she could tell he’d crossed his arms across his chest, no doubt
glaring at her in disapproval. The single lamp didn’t reach his face, so
she couldn’t tell for certain.

“I’ll send down for a hot bath and breakfast,”
she murmured when he said nothing. “You must be exhausted.”

“I’m fine. I’m returning to the manor. I
saw the light and thought you might need something. You have that letter ready
for Lady Blanche?”

“Your horse needs a rest even if you don’t.
Where did you find a brilliant mount like that, anyway?” Ignoring his
words, Dillian tugged the bell pull to summon a maid.

“Stole him. You have a neighbor with an amazing
stable. I’ll return the horse before I leave. Their groom will wonder,
but there’s no harm done.” He eased away from the lamp, slipping
into the shadowy corner when she pulled the rope. “I’m not staying,”
he reminded her.

“You have some pressing business that calls you back?”
she asked with a trace of scorn. “I’m certain O’Toole is
entertaining Blanche much more successfully than you would. They can wait a few
more hours.”

After the excitement of the evening, a maid was slow in
answering, but they could hear the footsteps on the stairs in the early morning
silence. Dillian donned a dressing robe and pulled it around her to conceal the
fact that she still wore yesterday’s gown. The marquess said nothing. The
low rumble of his voice would carry and reveal his presence.

Dillian opened the door just enough to speak to the maid. “Alice,
I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but I have to leave this morning.
Could you have someone draw a bath and bring up some breakfast? Something
substantial, if you would. Tea and toast aren’t enough after last night.”

“Of course, miss.” The maid curtsied and hurried
to do as ordered without questioning.

“Do you intend to wash my back?” the marquess
asked behind her, his tone almost carrying a hint of amusement.

“No, I intend to dress in Blanche’s room while
you’re washing. If you’re leaving without resting, I’m going
with you.” Dillian opened her wardrobe and removed her riding habit from
the interior.

“You’ll do no such damned thing,” he
whispered furiously. “I’m sending your lady back here, where she
belongs. I don’t need your help to do it.”

“Sending her back here so we can all die in our sleep?
How very generous of you.” Unmoved, Dillian opened her dresser, removing
the other items needed for her ensemble. She wished she could enjoy the bath
she had ordered, but she would make do. Still, she couldn’t help thinking
that it would be the last one she would enjoy for some time to come. Baths
didn’t come easily in Arinmede Ruin.

“They’ll not dare attack again. Everyone saw you
order the servants instead of Lady Blanche. They know she’s not really
here. This is the safest place for her now.”

“Fustian. She wouldn’t be back a day before the
whole village would know of it. You’ve lived too far from civilization
for too long, my lord, not to know that. We’ll only stay until Blanche is
well enough to travel. Then we’ll take the first ship to France and be
out of your hair.”

The sound of someone on the stairs halted the argument.
Dillian gestured for the marquess to hide in her dressing room while she opened
the door for the footmen carrying a tub. She would like to see bathing rooms
added to the Grange, but that would require money. The trustees still
controlled Grange income.

When a maid offered to stay and help her, Dillian shooed her
away. The cook sent up a pot of hot coffee and a platter of warm muffins to
break the first pangs of hunger. The rest of breakfast would follow later. The
marquess would have to bathe quickly.

As soon as the servants departed, Effingham returned. He had
shed his cloak and stood in the first rays of dawn in his unbuttoned waist
coat, loose trousers, and wilted shirt. Even so, she thought him the most
elegant man alive. A shock of black curls fell across his dark brow. His frock
coat fit snugly to wide shoulders and lean torso, even though he stood slumped
and weary, leaning against the wall to observe the proceedings. He was all
length, she decided. Long arms, long legs, long everything in between. His
clothes clung to him as if molded to his measurements. Blanche deserved a
husband as elegant as this one. The scars scarcely mattered.

“I smell coffee.”

Dillian gestured toward the tray. “It’s all
yours. Be quick though. They’ll return shortly with breakfast. I told
them to put it in my dressing room, but they still might come in and offer to
help me dress. They’re extremely efficient.”

He crossed the room and poured a cup of the black brew,
taking a healthy swallow without any additives. Dillian grimaced. She detested
the bitter taste, but he looked as if he could use it. “I’m sorry I
couldn’t figure a way to have your clothes freshened.”

He set the cup down and peeled off his coat. “I’ll
survive. Unless you mean to wash my back, you’d better run and hide.”

As the waistcoat joined his frockcoat on the floor, she
could see his sweat-soaked shirt plastered to his broad back, and she almost
wished she could stay and help him bathe.

That thought sent her fleeing in a panic. She meant the
Marquess of Effingham to marry Blanche. She shouldn’t think such thoughts
about her cousin’s future husband.

“Have you found that cousin of yours yet?” the
Earl of Dismouth inquired as he and the Duke of Anglesey strolled down the
steps of the Parliament building to their waiting carriage.

Neville clenched his fingers into fists and declared
crossly, “No, but that confounded companion knows where she is, I vow. We
should never have banned the rack. Drawing and quartering are too good for her.
In the meantime, even my best investigator has disappeared. I’m wondering
if there isn’t a conspiracy. Blanche would never pull this kind of stunt
on her own.”

The earl stroked his graying side-whiskers. “There
might be something to that. Lady Blanche’s father served with Wellington,
didn’t he? I heard he had some relationship with the notorious Colonel
Whitnell?”

Neville climbed in the carriage without looking back at the
earl. “That was all before my time. I was still up at Oxford when my
uncle died. What has that to say to anything?”

The earl settled on the seat across from him and crossed his
hands complacently on the golden head of his walking stick. “There’s
a few rumors going around the foreign ministry about Whitnell. Nothing solid,
you realize, but enough to raise questions. He’s said to have held
information of vital importance to His Majesty, information that never came to
light. I just thought if there were any relationship ...”

Neville waved a careless hand. “That’s too
far-fetched for me. My uncle was a pompous old fool. He wouldn’t touch
anything less than aboveboard. In any case, what would that have to do with
Blanche? She was still in the schoolroom when her father died.”

“Not a thing, I’m sure,” the earl
responded equably, leaning back in his seat. “I just thought you
mentioned her companion’s name as Reynolds. It may be far-fetched, but
Whitnell was said to have married a distant relation of the Reynolds family. I
do believe your cousin’s mother came from the same branch?”

And so it was, now that he thought about it. Pulling his hat
down to hide his eyes, Neville sank into a black study.

* * * *

Gavin woke to a soft bed and the welcome scents of fresh
coffee. It took a moment to overcome the sensual pleasure of enveloping
feathers and a cool dusk breeze drifting through the windows. He couldn’t
remember the last time he’d felt such comfort. He couldn’t remember
the last time he’d slept the day away.

Hell. Slept the day away. What had the damned woman done,
drugged his coffee?

Warily, he opened his eyes a crack to note the familiar tray
and pitcher. The coffee aroma wasn’t so pleasant with the prospect of
drugs tainting it.

“Oh, good. You’re awake. I’ve been having
difficulty explaining why no one could come in and freshen the room after I
roused everyone from their beds with plans for an early journey. They think
I’m ill.”

Gavin groaned and returned his head to the pillow. Gazing
upward, he could see a bouquet of bright flowers embroidered on the underside
of the canopy. He didn’t know one flower from another, but this seemed a
colorful assortment. It suited the little gamine. She ought to wear scarlet and
emerald and sapphire. Fire colors.

His mind wandered. It had to be drugs. He dared a sideways
look. The wretched elf sat composedly in a chair by the cold fireplace, some
respectable-looking tome in her hands. She wore the riding gown she had taken
out earlier in the day. He remembered she had pulled her hair back tightly
earlier also, but it had escaped its pins now. A thick dark strand curled in
front of one ear, and wisps hung about her neck. He fought back a grin at the
sight. She looked about eight years old.

“I don’t think I dare risk the coffee,” he
mused aloud. “I remember bathing. Do I dare hope I dressed again
afterward?”

She blushed. A woman who could blush. How amazing. He truly
hadn’t gone about much in society these last years. He couldn’t
remember blushing women. He just remembered screams and horrified looks and
heads turning away.

But this one gazed upon him fearlessly. He rather admired
that, although he had to wonder about the motive behind it. He had embarrassed
her unnecessarily. He could feel his shirt and trousers now, remembered lying
down, waiting for her return. He’d enjoyed a bountiful breakfast, too,
but his stomach felt empty again. He’d spent too many years going hungry
to appreciate the feeling now.

As if she read his thoughts, she rose to the bell pull. “I’ll
have them send up some dinner. Would you like something besides the coffee,
then?”

He didn’t know why she had decided to use patience
with him. She’d obviously spent the entire day guarding him against invasion.
He’d just accused her of poisoning his coffee and embarrassed her with
the notion of his nakedness, and she still stood there patiently awaiting his
orders.

His orders. Of course. She thought of him as a bloody
marquess, and she was naught but a lowly employee. He’d never get used to
this British class system. Frowning enough to make her flinch, Gavin sat up.

“Coffee is fine. I have to leave. Has anyone made
inquiries about last night?”

“The squire was here. He apologized and said
he’d called for militia, but none arrived in time. They’re
patrolling the village square right now. It’s not a healthy situation,
but I’m not in a position to do much about it. As far as I’m aware,
Blanche’s tenants are treated fairly.”

Gavin rose and started shoving his shirt back in his trouser
front before he realized he did so in the presence of a lady. He cursed his
bachelor habits and turned his back to adjust himself more discreetly. “A
mob follows where it’s led. The rabble-rouser in town practically ordered
them out here. I doubt if your tenants had any say in the matter.”

“That is not reassuring. You are saying someone sent
them out here to burn us out. And you meant to leave us here on our own?”

He wanted to tell her it wasn’t his problem. He had
more problems than he could deal with on his own. But she got so rosy-cheeked
in her outrage that she diverted his wits. He welcomed any diversions at all.

“As I told you before, they’ll not try that
tactic again. You have enough safeguards in place now that you shouldn’t
have to worry. Why doesn’t your Lady Blanche simply tell her noble duke
that she’ll marry him come October and pacify him for a while?”

Gavin could hear the maid coming. He wondered what his
nemesis would do if he refused to hide. The possibility that his dinner might
end up all over the floor when the maid caught sight of him settled the matter
quickly. He slipped through the open door of her dressing room as Miss Whitnell
let the maid in.

The cook here wasn’t as good as his Matilda, but the
tantalizing aromas of roast beef and pudding overcame Gavin’s
reservations. The lady hadn’t poisoned him so far. He would just make
certain she shared the meal with him.

They’d shared other meals together. She had as much
appreciation for good food as he did. He remembered young ladies as picking
delicately at their meals, striving to make conversation or to flirt and catch
his attention. Miss Whitnell had no such foolish notions. She merely ate what
was set before her and allowed the conversation to dwindle or spark as it would.
He liked that. He didn’t feel any pressure to converse.

But somehow they always found a topic. As he came out of the
dressing room and actually remembered to hold a chair out for her, she returned
to their earlier one.