The Marquess (32 page)

He could blame Dillian, he supposed. Women, unwittingly or
not, had been the downfall of many a man; he could attest to that. Had Michael
just left well enough alone and allowed the two women to find their own way, he
would now rest happily at the manor without a care in the world beyond himself.

They had a permanent roof over their heads for a change,
although Michael didn’t like spending much time under it. They had good
food in their bellies. They didn’t need to chase about London looking
after two females. But the instant the women hit their lives, he wound up with
aching muscles and a mind that couldn’t fasten on one topic longer than
two minutes, and now he was expected to gallivant around London like a bloody
marquess.

Gavin sipped the brandy one of the earl’s thoughtful
servants had provided, setting it back on the table beside the tub as the warm
liquor slid down his throat. He contemplated the pleasures of living like this
all the time, of having Dillian in the tub here with him.

Lord, but that thought made still another muscle ache. Gavin
eyed his rising flesh ruefully. He’d start having foolish notions about
marriage soon if he didn’t get rid of this obsession with the blasted
little termagant.

He relaxed against the high tub back. He wouldn’t have
to worry about marriage with Dillian around. She had her own obsessions, and
they weren’t about him. She’d made that clear enough.

He’d met women with fixed ideas before, but they
normally fixed them on marriage. Dillian had her mind fastened on the Grange
and keeping Blanche out of Neville’s hands.

He and the termagant made a good pair, if he did say so
himself. Except, somehow, Dillian had diverted him from his goals to hers.

Scowling, Gavin reached for the towel. He’d much
rather corner the duke, grab his lapels, and shake the papers from him, then
threaten him within an inch of his life should he come near the women again.

He supposed that kind of behavior only worked in the
uncivilized environs he’d inhabited as a youth. Here in civilized
England, the duke would no doubt call out His Majesty’s Royal Guards or
whatever and have Gavin and everyone else arrested. He really should learn more
about the powers of a marquess.

That gave him a mission more to his liking. To hell with
scheming women. He’d talk to Reginald. As the younger son of an earl,
Montague knew about these things, or he’d know who to ask. Idly, Gavin
wondered if his American scorn of aristocracy had thrown away opportunities he
didn’t know about. If he had the bloody title of marquess, he might as
well make the most of it.

With that decisive action in mind, Gavin climbed out of the
tub and prepared to dress.

He accepted the shirt handed him without thinking, then jerked
to attention and swung around. Scowling, he confronted the man who didn’t
belong there. “How the hell did you get past that overdressed prick at
the door?”

Without his black wig and wearing the earl’s livery,
Michael merely shrugged. “Don’t rely on the earl’s servants
to protect your back. They’re soft. Dismouth is hosting a small soiree
next Friday night. You and Miss Whitnell will have invitations. Have you seen a
tailor yet?”

The white lines crossing Gavin’s jaw tightened as he
glared at his brother. “I’m not wasting good coin on foolish
frippery just to dance attendance on these fashionable fribbles. I’ll
have Reginald get me into White’s. I can do just as much there as at any
party. Let the ladies play games. I mean to have the business done and over.”

“The Duke of Anglesey doesn’t go to
White’s. Half the cabinet you wish to meet doesn’t go there. You
would have to join every gentlemen’s club in town to meet everyone. Every
last one of them will be at Dismouth’s soiree, however. Wear your cloak,
an eye patch, and boots if you like, but get yourself there. We must establish
your consequence so we can get those journals into the right hands if it
becomes necessary. I have my hands full keeping those two females corralled.”

Gavin looked down at his unshod feet. “I could use a
new pair of shoes.” Then he returned his glare to Michael. “But
I’ll not wear those ridiculous knee breeches.”

“Fine. You won’t be the only one. You can
introduce yourself to Lady Darley today so she can formally introduce you to Miss
Whitnell on Friday. She’s expecting you. And I’ve made up a list of
the best tailors—”

“Out!” Gavin roared, pointing at the door. “I’ll
not meet any damned Lady Anything. I’ll not be pricked and prodded by man
milliners. I’ll buy a pair of shoes and show up at your party, and
that’s the extent of it, although what in hell I’ll do when I get
there, I can’t fathom. I can just see me stabbing an oyster and inquiring
over the dinner table as to the whereabouts of Colonel Whitnell’s
diaries.” This last he muttered as he buttoned his shirt and reached for
his trousers.

When Michael didn’t immediately leave as ordered,
Gavin looked up with another scowl. “And what did you do with Lady
Blanche that you can be here deviling me?”

“The lady decided of her own accord that she wished to
aid her cousin. The only way I could hold her was to hog-tie her, so I let her
have her way.” At the alarmed look in Gavin’s eyes, he added
hastily, “I brought her lady’s maid with her. At least
they’re all under one roof now where I can keep an eye on them.”

Gavin slammed his fist against a wall, and the bedroom door
immediately popped open to reveal a nervous servant asking if he wished
anything. The man flinched and retreated when Gavin turned his glare on him.

Satisfied that he hadn’t completely lost his touch, he
sat on the bed to tug on his well-worn boots. “And you have the lady
right where the duke can find her. You’d have done better to hog-tie her
and hide her in the secret passage back at the manor.”

Michael picked up a silver-backed brush from the dresser and
tossed it idly in the air, catching it with one hand, throwing it to the other,
heaving it back in the air in a repeat pattern. “You’re the one
with the touch for ladies, not me. And what did you mean by telling the she-devil
I’m your brother? She’ll hold that over me until my dying day.”
A fine tooth comb joined the brush in an airy dance.

“You
are
my brother. Put those damned things
back and get out. The idea of those two loose in London gives me cold shivers.
Someone should keep an eye on them.”

Michael juggled a snuffbox into the twirling pattern of
brush and comb, squinting at the objects as he did so and ignoring the
marquess. “You’re the one looking after the she-devil, not me. I
brought you a damned duchess, and you settle for a penniless witch. I’ll
never understand your thinking, your noble lordship. You like penny-pinching?”

Gavin stood up, grabbed the hairbrush from the pattern, and
flung it at his brother. Not missing a beat, Michael caught it and flung the
snuffbox at Gavin. Cursing, the marquess caught it and flung it back to the
dresser.

“I’m not playing games with you. If your Lady
Blanche is everything you say she is, she’ll find a more attractive,
younger suitor than me. I don’t need a wife moping around all day asking
when I’m taking her to London. Damn and blast it all, Michael, remove
your hide from here and back to those women!”

Michael carefully caught the brush and comb and lay them on
the dresser. “If the she-devil turns out to be the offspring of a traitor,
her reputation will be ruined, and it could very well bring Lady Blanche down
with it. The lady will have to marry her duke, then, and Miss Whitnell will be
out in the cold. Think about that carefully, brother mine.”

Gavin growled something irritable as he looked in the mirror
to tie his cravat. When next he looked up, Michael was gone.

Cursing the cravat, the empty room, and his brother’s
insinuations, he reached for his coat. He had no desire at all to contemplate
what would happen to Miss Whitnell should the duke throw her out of his
cousin’s household. He only wished to contemplate how soon he could climb
into her bed again.

The depressing possibility that it might not be for a long
time sent him stomping down the stairs, leaving the Earl of Mellon’s
staff quivering in their shoes as he swept out in a swirl of cloak and a
menacing growl for his carriage.

* * * *

“They are my papers, Mr. Winfrey. Can you not see that
after the fire, they are all that is left to me of my father?” That and
the ones that had disappeared from Blanche’s vault. She really had no way
of knowing which papers were where. “I wish them returned now.”
Dillian repeated the same words she had already said in as many ways as she
could, trying to get through to the bespectacled solicitor shaking his head
across the desk from her.

She thought she might leap from her seat, grab his
spectacles, and grind them into the floor if he took them off and polished them
one more time.

“I’m sorry. Miss Reynolds, those books were
brought in by Lady Blanche for safekeeping. I can only release them to Lady
Blanche. I have already explained this. Should Lady Blanche be forthcoming, I
will more than happily turn them over to her.”

“Lady Blanche was nearly murdered in her bed!”
Dillian shouted. “Do you really think she will present herself in public
for someone to try again? What if I bring a letter from her?”

She thought she saw a gleam of interest in his bespectacled
eyes. She wished she could glare at him as Gavin could. She wanted to see him
pale in fear.

“There is some concern as to the lady’s health,
you understand. If you could bring her in, just so we may ascertain that all is
well and she is not being coerced....”

“Coerced!” Dillian couldn’t stand it any
longer. She rose from her respectful position in the hard chair and paced the
wooden floor. She wore one of Blanche’s bonnets and a pelisse that almost
matched one of her old gowns. She had striven for a look somewhere between
menial companion and respectable lady. Her angry pacing now more resembled the
colonel’s daughter.

“Did you think I would have her kidnapped? Did you
think her so hen-witted as to be coerced by the likes of me into anything? Did
you think at all, Mr. Winfrey? If you will not hand over my papers, I shall
hire a solicitor of my own and sue you for slander and theft. I want my papers,
and I want them now.” She leaned over the desk as she imagined the
marquess would have done and glared at the solicitor.

Since she merely stood five-two and possessed half his
weight, the solicitor did not look impressed. “You may do as you see fit.
Miss Reynolds, but I shall certainly tell His Grace that I do not find you a
suitable companion for his impressionable young cousin.”

Dillian straightened. “You do that, Mr. Winfrey. And I
shall tell Blanche that Neville is certainly not a suitable husband. I have
already told her that you are not a suitable solicitor. I think she will
believe me now.”

She wished for Gavin’s cloak as she swirled around and
stalked out of the stuffy office. She could not believe the man wouldn’t
give her her own papers. They belonged to her father. He had no right holding
them. Neville must be behind this. Perhaps she should confront Neville
directly. She much preferred immediate action to planning and scheming.

Still fuming, she almost smacked into the marquess as she
stormed into the street.

He caught her elbows before they crashed, then glanced up at
the sign on the door behind her. “I take it you were not successful.”

She jerked her arms from his grasp. “I shall have Blanche
give him notice at once. London is full of solicitors who will be eminently
more accommodating. Let go of me. We are not supposed to know one another. Did
you think to beard the lion yourself?”

His lips curled in amusement, and she wanted to smack him
for that. The marquess didn’t look any more fashionable than he had at
the Grange, but he did wear a curly-brimmed beaver hat which made his darkly
sardonic face even more fascinating.

Beyond her fury, she melted beneath his gaze again. She
hadn’t considered the hows and whens of their next bedding, but that
expression on his face caused her to think of it now. She tried desperately not
to blush.

“I had thought a reasonable discussion between
gentlemen a possibility, but now I see I must resort to more drastic measures.
You have no doubt turned him into an obdurate mule with your ranting and
raving. What are you doing out here alone? I thought you had more sense than
that.”

“I’m not alone, and it will spoil everything if
we are seen together or if you show any interest in my affairs. Now, leave off,
Effingham. I’m not completely incompetent.”

His eyes narrowed, but he tipped his hat with his cane and
walked off as if they had just bumped into each other and apologized for the
inconvenience.

When Dillian turned to watch him go, she noticed the
attention of several ladies along the street drawn toward his tall figure. With
his scarred features turned toward the buildings beside him, they saw only the
handsome countenance and arrogant stride. They ought to see his ugly character,
she thought spitefully, proceeding toward her waiting carriage.

“Well, what did he say?” Blanche asked eagerly
as Dillian climbed in and the carriage rolled on.

Blanche still wore her ridiculous veil but the sheets had
been replaced by a nun’s habit. She now wore a pair of wire-rimmed
spectacles and white powder covering the red scars barely visible beneath the
veil. Dillian grimaced at the disguise, but in the darkened carriage, her
cousin couldn’t see the expression.

“He will not release the journals unless you ask for
them. I do believe he thinks I have kidnapped or murdered you. I am willing to
believe that even should you appear in person, he will call you an imposter.”

Blanche warily touched her cheeks. “Surely, I will not
look so different that he wouldn’t recognize me. He must know I will have
scars.”