The Marquess (42 page)

Dillian’s amused glance told him he’d made some
male faux pas, but he accepted it gladly if she looked at him again.

“Not unless some magic fairy could take three inches
off the bottom and add it to the top,” she answered without any hint that
she’d taken umbrage at his ignorance.

Gavin measured her with his mind’s eye and nodded
reluctant agreement. Blanche was one of those willowy beauties who wore clothes
well but possessed nothing beneath for a man to grasp. He much preferred
Dillian’s shorter stature and bounteous charms. She’d snap his head
off if he told her so.

“All right, then, did you have some fancy walking
dress made up? I want to take you out tomorrow morning, and I want us to look
every inch the dashing couple.”

Gavin loved causing that look of perplexity. He’d just
about decided he owed Michael a great deal, but he didn’t owe him
Dillian. He would fight until his dying breath to keep this delightfully
opinionated, immensely challenging woman. She might not want him. He could live
with that. But he’d damned well fight to hold her until she said so. Just
deciding that made him feel better.

“I cannot be something that I am not,” she
protested. “I am not dashing. I am just plain Miss Whitnell. Should I
play the part of anything else, I will make a laughingstock of myself.”

“I know the feeling,” he answered dryly, casting
a glance, at his starched cravat and pulling at it with distaste. “That’s
why I thought the military outfit would make you feel better. You could even
carry your pistol in your pocket, if you liked. I’ll have horses, so we
can ride, if you prefer. Personally, I think you’re dashing in that gown,
but I will admit that society operates under one blind eye and a terminal case
of stupidity, so we needs must knock it over the head before it sits up and
takes notice.”

Gavin could see her biting back a grin. He felt better as he
sat there, watching her flower beneath his gaze. He’d not entirely lost
his way with women, then. All he needed was a woman with sense enough to look
beyond the scars.

She didn’t want to trust him. She didn’t want to
trust herself. She planned on running and hiding, just as he had all these
years. He would teach her to confront her enemies with pistols drawn. He could
see already that she warmed to the idea, that she recognized something of the
truth of his words.

“What, exactly, did you have in mind?” she asked
carefully.

* * * *

“I feel like a blithering idiot,” Dillian
muttered the next morning as she stepped out of the house wearing a walking
dress of delicate lavender and twirling a matching parasol, complete with
ruffles and bows.

“You look like a porcelain confection, the kind people
sit on their mantels and admire,” Gavin admitted. His gaze slipped to the
cleverly designed neckline, which gave glimpses of soft curves while still
concealing them with gauzy ruffles. “But I’m a man who would rather
touch than look.”

Dillian sniffed. “I daresay you’ve broken your
share of porcelain in the process.”

As they proceeded to the carriage he’d procured, she
gave him an equally appraising look. She feared he had gone far in debt for
this day’s elegance.

In his high starched cravat, gold silk waistcoat, and fitted
blue morning coat he looked every inch the aristocratic marquess. His
high-crowned hat did nothing to conceal the scars, but he made no attempt to
keep his face averted. In fact, he met her gaze boldly, waiting for her
approval. The look in his eyes nearly took her breath away, and she had difficulty
maintaining the conversation until she retrieved the ability to breathe.

“You are looking unusually uncomfortable this morning,”
she finally discovered breath to say. “How do you find wearing shoes
again?”

The flash of white teeth against bronzed skin almost sent
her into transports. Gavin helped her into the carriage. She remembered very
distinctly what had happened the last time they rode together like this. She
had sworn she would not demean herself again. That didn’t mean she had
achieved total resistance.

“Quite comfortable, thank you very much,” Gavin
replied as he swung in beside her. “The ability to dress as I choose
certainly recommends living as a hermit.”

Dillian stared straight ahead, struggling not to react to
the lean figure lounging so close to her she could feel the heat of his thigh.
She admired the polish of his newly shod feet as they sprawled in front of hers
and fought stray thoughts about how his toes looked when bare.

“I told you last night that you need not remain here
for our sakes. You are quite free to return to haunt your hovel anytime you
like.”

Gavin had propped a walking stick with an ebony knob between
his legs, resting his gloved hands on it as he looked down on her from his
lofty height. She watched those hands tighten around the knob, but his voice
remained pleasant.

“I have decided there is more money to be made by an
occasional public appearance,” he drawled. “I have heard no end of
interesting investment possibilities these past days in the clubs. I mean to
look into several of them.”

Dillian darted him a quick look of curiosity. “You
have money to invest?” She immediately regretted the crassness of the
question and cursed her wayward tongue.

He merely looked down at her with that half-mocking grin
teasing the corner of his mouth. “Did you think I spent it all on wine,
women, and cards?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and sent him a
disgruntled glance. “If you had any to spend, it went on food and cooks
and fuel to heat that monstrosity in the winter. It certainly didn’t go
into planting your fields, which would have been the most sensible investment.”

“The fields aren’t mine to plant,” he
answered quietly. Then knocking on the carriage roof, he ordered the driver to
stop.

Dillian didn’t have time to question before the
earl’s footman lowered the steps and opened the door.

She wondered what Gavin had ever done for the Earl of Mellon
to allow him so much freedom with his personal servants and equipment, but she
refused to ask. She had some recollection of a mention of his cousin Marian
marrying into the family. Nobility had too many connections to ever sort
successfully.

“We’re near Bond Street,” she whispered in
puzzlement as she took his arm a moment later. “Whatever are we doing
here?”

“Walking together in public. I believe that is Lady
Castlereagh over there.” He tipped his hat brim with his walking stick
and nodded to the viscountess across the street.

Dillian gripped his arm tighter, forced a smile to her face,
and greeted one of Blanche’s suitors as he passed by. The man nearly
tripped over his own boots as he recognized Blanche’s once dowdy
companion. His admiring greeting met Gavin’s scowl, and he hurried on his
way.

Dillian wanted to feel delight at walking fashionable streets
on the arm of a handsome marquess who offered such jealous protection. She
should be floating on air. Once upon a time she had dreamed silly dreams of
wearing elegant gowns, twirling parasols, and chatting gaily with handsome men.

She had been a silly young girl then. She didn’t have
such foolish notions now. The Marquess of Effingham did not stroll the streets
of London for the sheer pleasure of it, and he did not scowl for jealousy. He
simply didn’t wish his plans interrupted.

“Could you please explain exactly what it is
we’re doing so I might act the part?”

“You are acting the part quite well. You might wish to
look upon me with doting admiration,” he added after a moment’s
consideration. “But I will not ask too much of you.”

Dillian could tell when he laughed at her, and she pinched
his arm through the layers of coat and shirt. Gavin didn’t flinch, but he
did turn a mirth-filled look at her. The blatant admiration in his gaze nearly
reduced her to breathlessness again.

Why in the name of all that was good was he doing this to
her? Hadn’t she made it plain enough that she had no desire to act as his
mistress now that this charade had ended? The journals were lost. They would
never know now who might want them. He could do nothing further for her. She
and Blanche must hide until they had funds to buy their safety.

Gavin had promised that the person they met today would aid
them. He needn’t be so confounded mysterious about it. And he
needn’t look at her as if he would devour her like one of his
cook’s meat pasties.

To her alarm, a familiar figure wended his way through the
crowd ahead. She tugged urgently on Gavin’s arm. “We must leave,”
she demanded, attempting to steer him into the nearest haberdashery.

“Nonsense. Here comes the man I want to see.”
Gavin remained firmly in place, ignoring her cries of protest.

Damn the man! After seeing them together yesterday, she
should never have trusted him again.

Dillian considered dropping his arm and running, but it was
too late. Her father’s most promising recruit and closest confidante had
already seen her. Lieutenant James Reardon was about to expose Miss Dillian
Reynolds, companion to Lady Blanche, as the daughter of Colonel Slippery
Whitnell for all of London society to see.

“Dillian! Thank God. I’ve hunted all of England
for you.” With a pronounced limp, Lieutenant Reardon hurried through the
crowd and grabbed Dillian’s hands. All around, people stopped, stared,
and blatantly eavesdropped as the young couple met under the black glare of the
terrifying marquess. Effingham’s malevolently scarred features and
threatening scowl had onlookers holding their breaths with fear and
anticipation.

“Reardon,” Dillian responded stiffly. “Have
you met Effingham yet?”

To the astonishment of all, the marquess held out his hand
and shook the young lieutenant’s proffered one. Deciding they
wouldn’t see a soldier beheaded immediately, several members of their
audience drifted off.

“We’re acquainted,” Gavin informed her. “He’s
the gentleman I wished you to meet.”

Dillian gave him a hostile glare. “You might have told
me so I didn’t succumb to failure of the heart.”

Gavin raised a quizzical brow, making his visage all the
more sinister. “I hadn’t realized your heart was involved.”

She smacked his shin sharply with her folded parasol. “That’s
not what I meant.” Reluctantly, she turned to Reardon. “I had no
idea you looked for me. Why ever should you do so?”

“I promised your father to look after you, but
I’ve been confined on the Continent until recently. I’d thought
some of our other acquaintances had seen you by now, but when I returned here,
no one knew anything of you. I’ve been frantic with worry.”

Reardon still held her hand. “My neglect is
unforgivable. I can understand if you will no longer speak to me.”

Dillian jerked her hand back. “Don’t be ridiculous.
I am perfectly fine. I’m quite capable of looking after myself. Goodness
knows, I’ve done it most of my life. Don’t enact a Cheltenham
tragedy for my benefit.”

She sent the marquess a questioning look. His scowl had
disappeared, but he still studied them cautiously. She thought she should give
his shin another whack, but she generously refrained. “What is this
about, my lord? Why do you wish us to meet?”

Seeing something he didn’t like in the
marquess’s manner, Reardon demanded, “Yes, what precisely did you
have in mind? If you’ve harmed one hair of this lady’s head—”

“Cut line, Reardon,” Gavin murmured without
inflection, his gaze still on Dillian. “The lady is capable of making her
own decisions. Shall we repair to somewhere a little less public now?”

“We could have
met
somewhere a little less
public,” Dillian hissed as they wandered a few streets to the park.

“Not for my purposes,” Gavin informed her as he
found a bench. “All this secrecy is damning. You English are too blamed
closemouthed. It’s time we strip this nonsense to the bones for everyone
to see and put an end to it.”

“I beg your pardon,” Dillian answered huffily. “I
see nothing nonsensical about trying to protect myself and Blanche.”

“Anglesey knows you’re Whitnell’s
daughter,” Gavin said coldly. “You are not protecting Blanche from
anything by continuing this charade.” He turned to Reardon. “Now,
tell her why you’re looking for her and why you’re working for
Anglesey.”

On the opposite side of Dillian, Reardon looked puzzled but
obliged. “Your father told me he left your inheritance in the papers I
sent back to you. I thought you sufficiently provided for so I did not worry as
I should have. When I returned six months or more ago and could find no trace
of you, I became increasingly concerned.

“I knew those papers contained some defamatory
material. The colonel had a habit of working out his angers by jotting down
notes disparaging his superiors, delineating their incompetence in rather
deadly accuracy.”

He shrugged apologetically. “You know as well as I,
Dillian, your father had as much pleasure from stirring trouble as from
drinking ale. He never subscribed to the officer’s creed of ‘taking
care of their own.’ He looked at things from an enlisted man’s
perspective, and he always found fault with the aristocrats around him, despite
the fact that he was one of them. He made a lot of enemies.”

Dillian played with the ivory handle of her parasol. “I’m
aware of that. But he was quite frequently right. That earned him more enemies
than anything else.” She sent him a scathing look. “The dukes of
Anglesey have not exactly been his friends.”

Reardon adopted a stubborn look. “As an officer,
I’m required to obey orders from my government. If I’m told to
report to the Duke of Anglesey, I do. The man is distraught over the
disappearance of his cousin. I can see nothing wrong in looking for her. You
are following in your father’s footsteps if you hide her ladyship.”