The Marquess (37 page)

She was indeed her father’s daughter.

Flinging herself across the covers, Dillian buried her head
under the pillow. Her father had taught her to turn her back on the past and
always look forward. She tried doing that now, but only a bleak emptiness
marked the path ahead. She ought to pack her bags and walk out, leave
everything behind and start over. That was the simplest course.

That was the course she had chosen five years ago when her
father had gone off to war and left her penniless again. She had taken her
mother’s name, sought her mother’s family, and started a new life.
What life could she start now?

She didn’t want to start all over again. The first
time hadn’t been quite so wrenching. Her father had ruined his name so
many times that she hadn’t cared if she left it behind. She’d lived
wherever he’d left her, with whomever would take her in. She’d not
made any long-term friendships that way. It had seemed glorious starting out
all over with a new name, a home, a friend, and family. Leaving all that behind
now would break what remained of her heart.

Besides, she couldn’t desert Blanche.

Dillian let that determination sink in. Her father certainly
hadn’t provided a model example of the rightness of his way of thinking.
Perhaps turning her back on the past and moving on with her life wasn’t
the ideal method of dealing with problems. It certainly seemed the easiest
solution, but that didn’t make it
right
.

Drying her tears on her pillow, Dillian contemplated her
alternatives. Regardless of anything else, Blanche was her friend. Blanche had
saved her life, saved her meager savings, taken her in when no one else would.
She simply couldn’t desert Blanche. Not even her father could be that
callous.

So if she didn’t desert Blanche, how could she protect
her? The wretched Lawrences had taken over Blanche’s life. Michael could
stand guard at the door.

That left Dillian to produce the journals and any secrets they
might uncover. What if they were wrong, and the journals held no secrets? What
if Neville had truly decided to just murder Blanche rather than wait around for
her to cut him off? That intruder tonight wouldn’t be fooled for long if
he worked for Neville.

She must see Blanche to safety first, then go after the
journals.

She reached that decision just as she heard her
cousin’s footsteps outside her room. Scrubbing at her tearstained cheeks,
Dillian leapt from the bed and began searching through her few personal
articles. By the time Blanche had knocked and entered, Dillian had her old
brown round gown in her hands and was ripping at the hem.

Blanche stood worriedly just inside the doorway, watching
Dillian rip at the old dress. “Are you leaving?” she asked in a
small voice.

“No, you are.” With firm conviction, Dillian
produced the hoard of coins she had sewn into the hem during those hours she
had watched over Blanche in the physician’s home. She gathered them up
and dumped them into a small pouch she kept at hand.

“I think there is enough here to take you and Verity
to France. If Michael insists on accompanying you, he can go as coachman or
whatever for propriety’s sake, but he’ll have to pay his own way.
It shouldn’t be for very long. I’ll send for you just as soon as
I’m sure it’s safe.”

Michael appeared noiselessly in the doorway. “And
you’re after thinkin’ the likes o’ the lady will reach Dover
without notice, be ye? Will ye be sendin’ the army with them,
p’raps?”

“Stifle that nonsense,” Blanche answered
crossly. “Dillian may be right. You saw that man in the garden.
We’re not safe here. If I’m not in England, Neville can’t
touch me. I’m quite capable of living quietly for a few months. That way
I’m no danger to anyone.”

Michael shifted from the wall and entered the room. “Your
duke has men crawling all over Dover and into France looking for you. With or
without the burns, you aren’t exactly invisible. Someone is bound to
notice you. If you go anywhere, it should be in the opposite direction. Have
you any friends in Scotland?”

Blanche’s eyes lit with hope. “Yes, I do. As a
matter of fact ….” She stopped and shook her head as her glance
fell on Dillian. “Neville knows all my friends. He will already have
notified them. They would simply send for him the moment I arrived. I’m
sorry, Dillian. Do you know of anyone?”

“I do, but I don’t know if they can be trusted
any more than I can trust Reardon. If Neville can hire an army, he can hire
anyone. It’s not as if old soldiers are given much in retirement pay,”
she said bitterly.

“Reardon? Who is Reardon?” Michael asked with
suspicion.

“None of your blamed business. None of this is any of
your blamed business. Why don’t you go away and leave us alone? Even that
mule-headed brother of yours has sense enough to know when he’s not
wanted.” Dillian turned her back on the too knowing eyes of Michael and
sat down at the vanity to unpin her disheveled hair.

“That’s not the way I’m seein’ it,
colleen. Gavin knows when he’s wanted all right. He’s just a mite
contrary when it comes to givin’ in. He’ll come back. The two of
you might as well sit here and tat doilies or whatever until he does.” He
eyed the bag of coins. “If you’re spending money, spend it on
hiring a few extra guards.”

Dillian tucked the pouch beneath her, out of sight. She took
a brush to her hair and glared at Michael’s reflection in the mirror. “Go
away, O’Toole. We have better things to do than tat doilies or talk to
you.” She didn’t dare speculate on what he meant about Gavin
knowing when he was wanted. If that wretched excuse for a marquess had told
O’Toole anything... She simply wouldn’t think about it.

She watched Michael’s expression in the mirror as he
turned to Blanche. Something in his gaze caused a painful tug on her heart, and
she closed her eyes against it. No one had ever looked at her like that. The
bloody marquess had looked at her with desire. Lots of men had looked at her
like she was a plump pudding begging to be devoured. She rather thought that
like young boys who could never get enough food—men could never satisfy
their craving for women. But lust had nothing to do with what she saw in
Michael’s eyes when he looked at Blanche.

The impossibility of the match made her speak harshly. “Out,
O’Toole, or I’ll scream bloody murder and call for the watch.”

When she opened her eyes and looked in the mirror again, he
was gone.

From over her shoulder she heard Blanche whisper, “Why
can’t anything be easy anymore?”

* * * *

Michael idled the next hour or so by carrying up buckets of
water and rope, locating hammers and nails, keeping the curious caretaker and
his wife quiet, and watching out all the downstairs windows. When Gavin
reappeared carrying a large sack beneath his cloak, Michael opened the front
door for him, then returned to rigging the rope over the door.

Gavin eyed the arrangement approvingly. “I’d
hoped to find buckets here. I had to steal most of this lot as it was. Lazy
merchants don’t keep gentlemen’s hours.”

Michael tied the rope end to the door latch, tested the
rigging by opening the door and watching the bucket tilt precariously, and
nodded. “Just don’t go running in and out without unfastening it.”
He disabled the rigging temporarily so they could go out without drowning.

“I’m bloody well not going anywhere. You are. I
can finish up here. I want you over at the solicitor’s office. Be a
beggar or a king, I don’t care, just get in that office and find the
journals.” Gavin emptied his sack in the middle of the hall floor and
sorted through his collection of oddities.

“As you pointed out, it’s the middle of the
night,” Michael reminded him. “Unless you have breaking and
entering in mind, I may as well stay here for now.”

Gavin threw him an impatient look. “Then, go break and
enter if that will fetch them any faster. If the journals are the key, let’s
find out. I’ve had enough of games. I want this over.”

Michael leaned against the newel post and contemplated his
brother’s tightened jaw and the flashing anger of his eyes. Gavin looked
every inch the Lawrence he was at the moment. The Lawrences were known for
their dark coloring: complexions, eyes, and hair. They were also known for
blazing tempers and outrageous arrogance. Gavin had all that and more.

“Finding the journals won’t end a thing,
you’re aware,” Michael said conversationally, watching as Gavin
selected a long stick and measured it against the front window.

“Are you still here? Must I do everything myself?”
Gavin answered with irritation, not turning away from his task.

“What difference will it make when you discover Miss
Whitnell’s deep dark secrets? It won’t make her a different person.
She’ll still be a cantankerous she-devil, and you’ll still want to
climb between her sheets. She’s been good for you. She’s got you
out of the house and back into the world. So why do you keep behaving like a
rabid animal when she’s around?”

Michael watched with interest as Gavin’s knuckles
whitened around the stick he whittled to fit the window. He fully expected the
haughty marquess to launch himself at him any minute now. He frequently trod
the narrow line between Gavin’s fury and patience. Sometimes he slipped
too far on the wrong side. The topic of the luscious Miss Whitnell drew that
line narrower than usual. Michael waited for the eruption to follow.

Instead of exploding, Gavin merely set down his stick,
walked across the floor, grabbed Michael by the shirt-front, and lifted him
from his feet. “You will not refer to the lady in that manner again. Do
you understand?”

Michael hid his grin and nodded solemnly.

Gavin threw open the door and pitched him into the street.

A moment later Michael heard the sound of his own
contraption being fastened to the front door latch. So much for returning
anytime soon.

Grinning and dusting himself off, Michael whistled as he
wended his way merrily down the darkened city street.

* * * *

Dillian heard the tapping and scraping below and wondered
what the devil O’Toole had decided to do at this hour. Unable to sleep,
she pulled on her wrapper and went out to peer over the stairwell. The sight of
Gavin in shirtsleeves, his cravat pulled off, and his buttons unfastened to
expose his chest nearly sent her fleeing back to her room. The sticks and
hammer in his hand kept her glued to the floor.

She couldn’t see where he went with them. He
disappeared toward the rear of the house. The quiet tapping and scraping
resumed.

She had no desire to ever speak to the man again. She
didn’t even want to be in the same room with him. If she never saw him
again, she might eventually forget what it felt like lying naked in his arms
feeling his body filling hers, hearing his whispered words against her ear.
Eventually. The day she died, perhaps.

If she went back down there, he’d either insult her
again, or kiss her back into his bed. She didn’t want either. But she
couldn’t sleep knowing he wandered the lower hall. She sat on the top
step with her elbows propped on her knees and her chin in her hands, and
debated her choices.

Gavin found her there sometime later, curled up and sleeping
on the landing. He tried regarding the dark fall of curls against her pale
cheek coldly, but he couldn’t. She had berated him, teased him, laughed
with and at him. She had worried about him.

Behind that sharp tongue and lovely curves lay a woman with
the tender emotions he’d been deprived of all these years. They spilled
generously from her in every word and action. She’d surrendered her
innocence to his selfishness just to save a friend. She hid secrets, yes, but
she wasn’t the only one. Perhaps, if he felt generous, he could possibly
believe that she had thought she protected him by keeping him from running
after the thief. Women had had stranger notions in his experience.

With a sigh of exasperation, he laid down his tools and
lifted her into his arms. She’d fall down the damned steps if she lay
there much longer.

She stirred as he carried her down the hall. Her arms went
around his neck as if they belonged there, and Gavin pressed her a little
closer, enjoying the warmth of her against his chest. She buried her face in
his shirt and murmured sleepily. The moment jarred something previously
untouchable inside him, and he held back a gasp against the knifing pain. It
did no good yearning for what he could not have.

Carefully, Gavin lay her against her rumpled sheets, fearing
if she woke she would scream and flail at him again. He really didn’t
want her screaming at him anymore. He just wanted to hold her against him and
feel her body next to his.

He’d never known how cold loneliness could be until he
had to cover Dillian up and walk away.

The north wind howled through his soul as he closed the door
behind him.

Wearing an elegant beaver hat, a frock coat of such fit even
the Beau could have found no complaint, and stockinet breeches held secure by
straps inside knee-high Hessians, Michael Lawrence O’Toole gave a haughty
nod to the law clerk in the first office and proceeded up the dimly lit stairs
to the next floor.

The clerk downstairs had every right to stare. No gentleman
of such elegance ever stirred at this unearthly hour of the morning unless
headed home after a night of dissipation. The frock-coated gentleman ascending
the worn stairs not only showed no sign of dissipation but moved with the
lightness of a skilled athlete. The clerk shook his head in amazement and
returned to his own particular cubbyhole.

Upstairs, Michael scanned the row of locked doors, their
glass panels dark at this hour. Finding the one he sought, he removed an object
from his pocket, fiddled idly at the lock, and a few seconds later, the door
opened to welcome him.