The Marquess (47 page)

He watched as some backed to a far corner, no doubt in the
direction of the kitchen exit. Gavin held his temper and his pride, standing
straight and tall for their inspection, reciting his tale without pleading.

“This villain has brought soldiers to Arinmede. They
have the manor surrounded so I cannot reach my lady. He wants the evidence I
hold against him in exchange for her life, but I don’t think he’ll
let her live once I give him what he wants. I must rescue her, and I need help.”

The room remained silent. Sweat beaded on Gavin’s
brow, and his fingers rolled into fists, but he couldn’t command their
help. He had to ask for it.

“What’s in it for us?” the innkeeper
asked.

“’Enry, that ain’t polite,” another
reprimanded. “If ’is lady is the one what ’elped save
Emagene’s young ’uns, we orter ’elp.”

Gavin could see the argument forming. He didn’t have
time for argument. He appealed directly to their pockets. “I have been
looking for the owner of the lands that once belonged to the manor, so I can
put them back in production. Help me save my lady, and I’ll use every
power in my possession to buy back those lands and find work for anyone needing
employment. No one will go without again.”

Startled into silence, his audience stared at him. A low hum
of speculation followed the silence. Wild promises needed careful
consideration, but eagerness shone in every eye.

“What can we do?” the innkeeper asked,
apparently acting as spokesman.

“I don’t want anyone hurt. The soldiers have
muskets, so you will have to stay out of their range and hidden as much as
possible. If you take the old farm road behind the stable, the building and
darkness will conceal you.

“I need a distraction that will give me time to get
inside the manor. I suggest you carry torches and tinderboxes, light them when
you reach the stable, and set fire to the haystacks, screaming and hollering
like lunatics. I want them to think I’m leading the entire village to the
attack. Once the soldiers start running after you, hide in the woods. I just
need time enough to get inside.”

Despite his elegant frock coat and cravat, Gavin felt more
at home with the men around him wearing dirty smocks and pieces of leather
wrapped in string for shoes than he did with London gentlemen. He hadn’t
words to explain. He just knew what appealed most to their hearts.

“You say the man inside is a traitor to His Majesty?”
the innkeeper asked, again with suspicion.

“I lost my son in Wellington’s army,”
someone else interrupted.

“I lost my damned arm in the army,” a man
shouted from the rear. “We ate weevils and dirt because the bloody nobles
wouldn’t spend their blunt on us.”

“You had faulty muskets because of that man in the
manor now,” Gavin said, his voice reaching over the grumblings in spite
of the noise.

It took more persuasion, some coercion, and a great deal of
wild promising, but little by little, the men in the tavern picked up their
coats and hats, sought out their fellows, rounded up pitchforks and knives, and
torches and tinderboxes, and slipped silently into the night after Gavin.

He’d never thought of himself as lord of the manor. He
hadn’t been raised to it. But he had some understanding of what it meant
as these men looked to him for direction, not only for this moment, but for the
future he promised them. He held their lives in his hands. He had a duty to
protect them as he had a duty to protect Dillian. He’d never shirked
responsibility before. He wouldn’t now.

* * * *

Neville Perceval, Duke of Anglesey, stared in dismay at his
hired investigator. “You are telling me Dismouth and my father were the
traitors, not Whitnell,” Neville repeated in disbelief.

“Correct, Your Grace.” Michael showed no sign of
impatience as he swung his ebony walking stick and took a seat without
invitation. The soldier who had entered with him stood near the door, saying
nothing.

“And Whitnell’s journals are your evidence, and
they didn’t burn in the fire?”

Michael smiled graciously. “Thanks to myself, of
course. I can also tell you where Lady Blanche is, but not until you’ve
satisfactorily proved yourself innocent of recent occurrences. That’s why
we are here, Your Grace.”

“Innocent!” the duke said with irritation. “Innocent
of what, may I ask? And who are you to act as judge and jury?” He shot a
look to the soldier at the door. “Reardon, isn’t it? Is the man
mad?”

Reardon stood at attention. “No, Your Grace. The lady
and her companion have been attacked on several occasions. One resulted in
severe injuries to Lady Blanche. The most recent caused Miss Whitnell to fire a
pistol to save herself. We have reason to believe the journals were the cause
of the attacks, but the fact that many of the attacks involved Lady Blanche
leaves your culpability in question, Your Grace. I apologize for the
disrespect, sir.”

“He apologizes for the disrespect,” Anglesey
muttered to himself, dropping back against his chair seat and covering his
eyes. “Is my cousin safe and well?” he asked, without looking at
the intruders.

“Safe and as well as can be expected,” Michael
answered coolly. “The fire has left some disfigurement, you will
understand.”

The duke uncovered his face and glared at his visitor. “And
you think I’m crude enough to have her so cruelly burned?”

“Someone did,” Michael pointed out logically. “You
stand most to benefit.”

Neville’s eyes widened, and he rose from his chair. “Damn,
you say! And how do you figure that? She’s worth a great deal more to me
alive than dead.”

Michael’s expression didn’t reveal a flicker of
surprise. “It is quite common knowledge that the lady’s possessions
revert to Anglesey in the event of her untimely demise, Your Grace.”

“It is also quite common knowledge that if she marries
me, all her possessions come to Anglesey,” the duke retorted. “I’d
much rather have the lady than her possessions.”

“The lady doubts that, but that is not my concern. Who
else benefits from her untimely demise besides yourself?”

The duke stiffened, but he considered the question. “No
one, directly. You understand that as a considerable heiress, Blanche is
responsible for immense amounts of property as well as wealth. She has control
over manufactories, borough seats, vicarages …. The list is extensive. Many
people might prefer seeing that power in my hands rather than hers.”

“Manufactories,” Reardon repeated from the door.

“Borough seats,” Michael said at the same time.

“Dismouth,” the duke agreed in astonishment. “Dismouth
inquired into the munitions factories once, and expressed interest in
influencing Blanche in the matter of the borough seats. When I told him she
refused my advice, he said no more, but he did express irritation. I believe he
thought I lacked the backbone for dealing with my cousin.”

“Doesn’t Dismouth have a daughter in town for
the Season?” Reardon inquired.

“Lady Susan,” he muttered. “But
there’s any number of females who hope to capture a duke,” he
continued defensively. “I sometimes feel like a particularly fine
specimen of trout.”

At that point Michael relaxed enough to grin. “Lady
Blanche would appreciate the comparison. Reardon, bring in our friendly family
solicitor.”

“Winfrey?” The duke sent Michael a questioning
glance. “Who in hell are you, anyway? And don’t tell me
O’Toole because I won’t believe it. No damned Irishman would have
troubled himself to dig so deeply into my affairs.”

Michael’s smile disappeared, and he shrugged. “No
one of import, Your Grace. The lady required assistance, and I was happy to be
of help. You wouldn’t have received any extortion letters recently, would
you?”

The duke didn’t have time to reply before Winfrey
stumbled through the open doorway, his hands tied behind his back. From behind
his glasses, the solicitor glared at Michael. “Of course not, you
impertinent jackanapes. The duke has been all that is gracious. One does not
extort money from benefactors.”

Winfrey jerked from Reardon’s grasp, straightened, and
met the duke’s startled look with pride. “Dismouth destroyed your
father, Your Grace. I could only watch helplessly as he became more deeply
involved with every passing day. I did not know his acts were treasonous until
I translated the diaries. I do not know what I could have done if I’d
known. The Percevals and Winfreys go back centuries, Your Grace. I could not
have reported him.”

“But you could destroy Dismouth by extorting
everything the earl owned,” Michael said with delight. “A man after
my own heart. Now, let us get down to business. There is the small matter of
Whitnell’s lists. And the deeds, Winfrey? What have you done about
Whitnell’s deeds? I believe you handled that matter also?”

Winfrey looked guilty for the first time. “I should
have told the lady as soon as I discovered her identity, but she introduced
herself as Miss Reynolds. There was some doubt in my mind, you understand, and
I feared letting her have anything so dangerous as those diaries. She could
have destroyed the family, sir. I couldn’t allow that.”

“What rot are we talking now?” the duke demanded
to know.

Before anyone could answer, a footman in livery appeared in
the library doorway. “A messenger, Your Grace. He wishes to speak with
Mr. O’Toole and Lieutenant Reardon.”

When Gavin’s message was repeated, Michael grabbed his
hat and left.

Garbed in a flowing lawn nightrail from one of the trunks,
with one of Gavin’s coats over her shoulders for warmth, Dillian amused
herself by dusting Gavin’s library. She didn’t worry greatly about
the servants discovering her presence. From the thickness of the dust she
assumed they didn’t spend a great deal of time here. Actually, she didn’t
spend much time in dusting, either. She chewed on the hunk of bread she’d
stolen from the larder and admired an old illustrated text of Gulliver’s
Travels.

A knock at the front door brought her head up. Having no
great desire to meet Gavin’s staff or his guests while dressed like a
ragamuffin, she settled in the window seat and glanced out the window.

Officers were deploying red-coated soldiers across the
shaggy lawns while a man in gentleman’s hat and tails waited on the
drive, overseeing the operation. An officer pounded on the door. Dillian
didn’t recognize the officer, but she recognized the gentleman.
Dismouth
.

She didn’t think it very likely that Gavin had sent
British soldiers to guard his home. This didn’t bode well at all. Torn
between hiding and wanting to hear what the officer said, Dillian took a middle
course. She slipped down the back hall to the dumbwaiter. She’d already
learned this was where the servants stood to gossip.

“Says he’s come to claim the place in His
Majesty’s name,” Matilda grumbled a little while later outside
Dillian’s hiding place. “Can’t imagine what His Majesty would
do with a pile of stones like this.”

“Reckon we should leave?” Janet, the maid
whispered. “Did he say what was to become of us?”

Matilda grunted cynically. “If he’s staying,
he’ll not wait on himself. You can be sure of that. I’ll wait until
his lordship returns, myself. I’ll hear it from his mouth and no
other’s.”

Dillian cheered in silent approval. She debated the wisdom
of revealing herself to the staff and decided against it. They didn’t
know her and the explanations would be interminable. She couldn’t be
certain they would believe her tall tale over an earl’s.

When the soldiers searched the house, however, Dillian
panicked. She couldn’t believe Dismouth knew of her presence, but surely
he knew Gavin had the journals. What else could he look for?

She bolted for the secret passage. She disliked spending
hours in the dark, but like the servants, she would wait for Gavin.

Except for one or two scattered about downstairs, the
soldiers eventually left the house to stand guard outside. It had turned dark
by then, but Dillian knew her way around this house blindfolded. She’d
rummaged food from the pantry and retreated to the top floor, where she could
observe the proceedings without being disturbed.

She sipped from her water glass and nibbled on bread and
cheese while she contemplated the movements of the shadows outside. She
didn’t think she could make it across the lawns unnoticed, not in the
ridiculous gown or any other attire she might find in the wardrobes. If she
dispensed with the coat, she might make a good ghost, but her sense of humor
flagged. She worried about Gavin.

Could they have locked him in jail for some infringement of
the law of which he knew nothing—or more likely, of which he cared
nothing? She didn’t think he would take that kind of risk while her
attackers remained at large.

She rather suspected Dismouth’s arrival had something
to do with those blamed journals. She just prayed it had nothing to do with
Gavin’s disappearance. No messenger had arrived to assure her of his
safety as he’d promised.

Her stomach churned at this knowledge, but Gavin had
promised to return, and he would. She just need wait and watch until he did.
She didn’t know what would become of her then. She had told him she would
be no man’s mistress, yet he’d offered no promises of marriage. He
wanted her in his bed, but men frequently suffered temporary aberrations of
that sort. Nothing ever came of them but babies.

She instinctively covered her belly. She supposed she could
force him to marry her if she carried a child, but she’d rather rely on
land to support her.

Still, she worried about Gavin.

A furtive movement near the stable caught her eye. Surely,
Gavin wouldn’t try defying an entire troop of soldiers.

She definitely saw movement by the stable, and more than one
shadow slipping from the trees. Michael as well as Gavin? Reardon? What could
they possibly do?