The Marquess (18 page)

After a line like that? She wanted to know it all. Dillian
sent Effingham a curious glance, but he didn’t much look like an outlaw.
Even in that ridiculous garb he looked the part of aristocrat. It was in his
tall, lean elegance, the way he held himself, the arrogance of his tone, the
carelessness with which he dismissed the opinion of the rest of the world. Even
with his odd accent, no one would mistake him for anything less than a nobleman
no matter what guise he wore.

“I should like to hear a great deal more, if you
please. I have never been farther from home than London. I should like to know
about the Americas and the navy and your family. You ride a horse
magnificently, but you say you’re a sailor. How can any one man be so
many things?”

“Easy. Be poor and desperate for any work at all. Have
a younger brother and a sickly mother to support. The tale is not a romantic
one. I have done many things of which I’m not proud. I’m quite
content just staying at Arinmede and working the land. I don’t need
society or annoying mosquitoes or lovely heiresses.”

His dismissive tone made it obvious the conversation had
ended. Since the lights of the village came into view, Dillian gave it up for
now. She didn’t know why she wanted to know more about this man who so
obviously wished to be left alone. For some reason, he just fascinated her. She
would get over that quickly enough.

They found the horses at the inn, where the marquess had
boarded them. Dillian insisted on paying the shot with the money she had taken
from the Grange’s household cash. The marquess quietly put his hand back
in his pocket and let her proceed. After all, Blanche was the reason for their
presence here. She had enough wealth for all of them. Dillian saw no reason to
put the bankrupt marquess out of pocket.

She was pleasingly surprised that he had followed her train
of thought and not objected. Not too many men would lower their pride so. Of
course, not too many men traveled with women dressed as poachers.

They quietly took a back road out of town. Dillian knew this
part of their journey. She knew the road they took led away from Arinmede. She
returned his courtesy by not questioning. Surely, a sailor could read the stars
and know they took the wrong direction.

She received her reward for her silence when he pointed out
the soldiers at the crossroads ahead.

“Militia. I’m heading for Plymouth to take ship.
You’re my tenant come to take my horse and some cattle I’ve
purchased back to my farm. Don’t name any names if you can avoid it.”

Dillian glanced nervously at the uniformed men rising up
from their lounging positions in the grass. A moment later, she gulped with
more than nervousness. She recognized the colors of her father’s
troop— surely, Neville hadn’t set the Queen’s Hussars to
search for Blanche!

Dillian peered through the darkness, searching for familiar
faces. Except for the officer, the motley group wore only ragtag remnants of
uniforms. She’d met most of her father’s troop at one time or
another, but after the war, the faces had changed. When she’d changed her
name and moved in with Blanche, she had lost track of those few she knew, other
than those listed as fatalities at Waterloo.

She thought she recognized Reardon as the officer lounging
against the signpost, letting the others do his work for him. She didn’t
know how to warn the marquess. Not only did she think it would look suspicious
if she suddenly rode up beside Effingham, whispered her message, and rode back,
but she didn’t know what she could say to him.

He didn’t know this country very well. He had probably
never heard of Colonel “Slippery” Whitnell. Even though Blanche had
let slip Dillian’s real name, it had made no difference to this man. She
liked it that way.

“Who goes there?” called a man wearing the blue
cape of a hussar but without the royal red shako. Dillian found it difficult
imagining the dashing cavaliers of the Napoleonic Wars reduced to standing
guard at country crossroads. Reardon must have got himself on Neville’s
wrong side to find himself in this humiliating position. She wondered how he
came to be in charge of such a motley lot.

“Who asks?” the marquess asked complacently.

“An officer of the Queen’s Hussars, sir.
Dismount and state your name and destination!” the guard barked.

Effingham remained mounted. His Yankee accent assumed that
tone of idle amusement Dillian wished to trounce him for upon occasion. He was
asking to get himself killed. She didn’t think these men any too happy
with their duty. They would take him apart first and ask questions later if
pushed too far.

“As far as I’m concerned, you could be a pack of
damned horse thieves, my friends. And since I’m a United States citizen,
I’m not much accustomed to bowing and scraping. I’d suggest you let
me pass before I start another war just for the pleasure of seeing His
Majesty’s royal forces cut to ribbons again.”

A couple of the other men sauntered over to stand behind
their comrade, but Reardon remained where he was, watching the episode with
boredom. Dillian bit her lip in an effort to keep her tongue still.

“A damned Yank,” one of the men muttered.

The guard who had halted them spoke nastily. “It seems
we won the last war. If you want to get beat again, go ahead and try it.”

“Bloodthirsty, are we? You must not have been in New
Orleans when General Jackson and his men cut down the ‘world’s
finest fighting force’ by the thousands,” the marquess answered
with the same dry amusement. “And we have a real navy now. Just imagine
what John Paul Jones could do with more than one ship this time around.
However, I’m not eager to slay my cousins. I’ll hold the peace if
you’ll just let us pass. Even in this foolish country you can’t
stop innocent citizens without a purpose when they travel public roads.”

For some reason, the marquess’s languid air of
authority and bored amusement worked on the soldiers, or ex-soldiers, as the
case seemed likely. Their stances relaxed, and they seemed to regard the
conversation as a challenge.

Men! Dillian thought with disgust. This could evolve into an
all-night game of one-upmanship. Unless Reardon got a good look at her. Since
he was rising from his pole position and swaggering toward them, that could
happen any minute now. She glanced nervously at the one lantern sitting by the
fire. They hadn’t brought it forward—yet. She didn’t want to
wait around until they did.

If she addressed the marquess by his title, these men would
instantly fall back, but he didn’t want his identity revealed for fear it
would lead to Blanche. Dillian wouldn’t endanger Blanche if he
wouldn’t. The worst they could do was arrest him for insubordination or
some such. She just didn’t want to think what would become of her once
Reardon disclosed her identity as Whitnell’s daughter. Dillian sighed and
held her tongue. She would sacrifice whatever it took for Blanche.

“A damned Yank and a bloody sailor, or I miss my
guess,” Reardon drawled as he strolled up.

“Captain, actually,” the marquess responded in
the same flat drawl.

“And what’s this you’ve got behind you?”
Reardon nodded his feathered shako in the direction of Dillian.

The marquess checked behind him as if he’d forgotten
anyone followed. He shrugged his shoulders beneath his long coat with
disinterest when he turned back around to face his interrogator.

“One of my cousin’s tenants. He’s taking
some livestock back for Mellon. I fail to see any reason for holding up our
journey in this fashion. If you’re the officer on duty, then tell your
men to remove themselves from my path. The earl isn’t a politically
active man, but he might raise himself to action if he hears how the
queen’s forces are being used. If the queen’s forces they are,”
he added with malice.

Dillian breathed a sigh of relief. If Effingham threw around
a title, they’d escape soon enough.

Reardon’s voice held the same note of amusement as
Effingham’s had earlier. “Do we refer to the Earl of Mellon? And
what would a blamed Yank know of such an illustrious personage?”

“He’s my cousin,” the marquess responded
affably. “And he’s damned glad to see the back of me. So if
you’re meaning to keep me here, you’ll hear from him soon enough. I
have yet to know the reason for this little blockade. Am I accused of smuggling
American brandy? Of riding the wrong horse before Derby? Just exactly what is
the infraction?”

Reardon wandered a little closer to Dillian. She could feel
his sharp gaze take in her broken-down nag, her homespun smock, her lack of
baggage. She just prayed the baggy breeches, smock, and filthy hat hid enough
of her to pass inspection. Reardon might be idle and effete, but she had never
thought of him as dumb. She held her breath and stared off into space like a
dim-witted know-nothing.

“I’m looking for a stolen heiress,”
Reardon said casually, his gaze seemingly probing beyond Dillian’s loose
smock.

Effingham laughed. “For that, I’ll gladly
dismount. If you find her beneath my saddle, I’ll happily turn her over
to you.”

Reardon shrugged and finally let his gaze return to the
marquess as he sauntered in his direction. “Ride this heiress, and the
duke will revive drawing and quartering just for your benefit. Go on with you.
I’ve better things to do with this night.”

Dillian sighed with relief as they silently rode past the
soldiers and took the crossroad leading even farther away from Blanche.

Reardon had no reason to know that his former
officer’s daughter was now the companion of the missing heiress. She had
dropped her old identity entirely when she’d moved in with Blanche.
Blanche just referred to her as a distant cousin on her mother’s side.
She’d taken her mother’s maiden name of Reynolds. He could not
possibly make the connection. Why, then, did she have the uneasy feeling that
he’d seen through her disguise?

They rode well out of sight and sound of the soldiers before
taking a path through a farm gate and finally striking out over the fields in
the direction of Hertfordshire and Arinmede.

The marquess didn’t seem particularly talkative, and
Dillian had no desire to share her thoughts, either. She just wanted to reach
Blanche as quickly and safely as possible. Even if Reardon suspected her
identity, he’d have no reason to follow her, no reason to associate her
or the “damned Yank” with Blanche. Nothing else mattered.

They rode for hours, through fields and woods and finally on
the roads that would take them to the manor. They stopped at a posting inn to
refresh the horses and themselves. When the marquess returned with ale and food
he’d persuaded from a sleepy scullery maid, he quaffed deeply of his mug
and regarded Dillian with a look that made her uneasy. She made a show of
brushing down her weary horse.

“Why do I get the feeling that officer back there knew
something he shouldn’t?”

Dillian tried shrugging nonchalantly as he did. She
wasn’t very good at it. “You were the one doing the talking. I
played dumb as you told me.”

“Your servants call you Miss Reynolds, but Lady
Blanche called you Whitnell. If I’m harboring a fugitive, I’d like
to know of it.”

Damn his agile mind. He couldn’t possibly know the
truth. She didn’t know the truth of it herself. He just jumped to
remarkably odd conclusions using exceedingly few facts. Dillian gave up her
pretense of knowing what she was doing and sipped the ale he handed her. She
made a face at the bitter taste, but she needed something to wash down the
night’s dirt.

“I’m not a fugitive, if that’s what
you’re insinuating. I’m just exactly what we’ve told you,
Blanche’s companion. What my name is isn’t relative.”

Effingham bit into his bread and cheese and chewed
thoughtfully. He’d taken off his ridiculous hat, and Dillian watched as a
hank of dark hair fell across his brow, almost in his eyes.

She couldn’t imagine why she thought of him as an
aristocrat. He ate common fare as if accustomed to it, dressed like the worst
rabble, and had the conversational delicacy of a hedgehog. But she read
aristocracy in the long lines of his patrician nose and square jaw, the jut of
his cheekbones over hollowed cheeks, the arrogant mannerisms bred into him from
birth. His father and grandfather might have stayed one step ahead of the law,
but they’d never forgotten their breeding. They’d passed it on to
this man.

He finished his fare and gathered their tankards to take
back to the kitchen. Only then did he reply. Giving her a stern look from
beneath a thin line of dark eyebrows, he said quite forcefully, “I
don’t give a damn who or what you are. I just won’t have my home or
my people harmed in any way. Remember that.”

Dillian found herself trembling as she remounted. She
didn’t think the Marquess of Effingham made threats idly.

* * * *

Blanche gazed wistfully out at the first streaks of light on
the horizon and waited for the orders to cover her eyes with the scarf Michael
had given her to replace her bandages. She could still see little more than
shadows and light out the window, but she probably couldn’t see more than
that if her vision were whole. Darkness shrouded most of the landscape.

In these limited moments between dark and light, she watched
with amusement as the breakfast cutlery disappeared up Michael’s sleeve
and reappeared in places like the flower vase with her morning rose. He
retrieved a fork from his pocket and a spoon from her hair. Of course, the
faint gray light of dawn from the window made it easy for him to hide the
gestures that produced this sleight of hand.

She could easily distinguish the white linen of
Michael’s shirt and admire the way it draped his broad shoulders. She had
scolded him for improper attire, but he’d only grinned and produced the
rose from his shirt cuff. She could see his grin and the rose, if only in outline
and grayness. He refused to light a lamp.