The Marquess (5 page)

“I brought breakfast,” he said gruffly. He
wasn’t accustomed to company. His social skills had never been of the
best and had deteriorated to nothing of late.

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” she said
uncertainly, finally focusing on his location by the sound of his voice. “Will
you share it with me? It is rather lonely sitting here by myself.”

She tried hiding the plaintive note but she was too young to
do it well. Her social skills, however, possessed everything his did not.

Gavin scowled and placed the tray on a table he drew up
beside the bed. “You will find some difficulty managing cutlery with your
palms like that. I ordered the eggs scrambled so you needn’t cut them.
Tell me what you would like on the toast.”

“I can’t see the cutlery to pick it up,”
she reminded him gently. “Perhaps if I tried taking the bandage off...”

“No!” He reached across the table and curled her
fingers around a fork, then led her hand to the plate. “If the physician
says your eyes must remain bandaged to prevent damage, then you must listen,”
he said with a little more politeness than his first shout.

“I think I would like a second opinion,” she
answered with irritation, maneuvering the fork through the eggs. Blindly
managing fork and food required a delicate sense of balance but she
accomplished it. “I cannot see how these bandages accomplish anything
except to conceal this place from me. Mayhap I have truly been stolen and
hidden away, and you don’t wish me to see your face to identify you.”

Gavin certainly didn’t wish her to see his face, but
that wasn’t the reason. He didn’t even bother fingering the scars
that ravaged his once handsome jaw and drew one corner of his mouth up in a
permanent smirk. He merely forked a mouthful of eggs from his plate and added
jam to his toast.

Once he swallowed the eggs, he’d found a reply. “As
I told you last night, you’re free to leave. But perhaps you could tell
me your story before you do so. Michael thinks that you’re in some
danger. Why is that?”

Blanche shrugged and clung to her bread. “I
don’t know this Michael. I cannot imagine what he is thinking. My house
burned down and nearly took everyone in it. That is a very frightening event in
itself. I would like assurance that my staff escaped safely. I must see that
they have places to go, that they are not hungry in my absence. I cannot do
that while trapped here.”

That was an exceedingly mature viewpoint from one who
couldn’t possess more than eighteen or nineteen years, at his best guess.
Gavin frowned some more, but she didn’t flinch. He didn’t know
about her blindness, but her bandages obviously protected her from the sight of
him.

Since she couldn’t see enough to fear him and
apparently didn’t have sense enough to understand the danger of residing
secretly with a strange man without protection, he saw no purpose in frightening
her with words.

“When Michael returns, I will send him out to check on
your servants. Do you have a man of business who might see that they are paid?”

She hesitated, then stared down at her plate. “Only my
cousin Neville’s solicitor. He handles all my funds. Dillian always told
me that was a mistake. Perhaps I should have listened.” She looked up
with an air of defiance. “But he always handled the family affairs. I
cannot believe he would betray me, not any more than I can believe Neville
would.”

Gavin found that an interesting starting point, but he
didn’t know if he ought to take advantage of it. He didn’t want the
chit harmed, but he didn’t want to become permanently entangled in her
affairs, either. He didn’t possess the Good Samaritan instincts of his
brother. He had enough problems of his own without looking for more.

“Perhaps if you could pen a short note, we could have
it delivered without anyone knowing its source. Your solicitor would recognize
your signature and obey your wishes?”

She thought about that. “I believe so. He’s
never refused anything I’ve asked of him.” She lifted her damaged
hands uncertainly. “I cannot say how recognizable my signature would be.”

Gavin felt dubious, too, but he didn’t mention his
doubts out loud. It was the only solution that occurred at the moment. “I’ll
write the note that you dictate so all you need do is sign. Perhaps if I hold
your hand while you hold the pen, we can keep it legible enough.”

He suspected she was giving him a skeptical look. Her reply
confirmed it.

“I will make the note very brief, but I will write it
myself. Will you bring me pen and paper?”

If he really meant her harm, he just wouldn’t mail the
note. Gavin didn’t impart that bit of information as he trailed off,
shoeless, in search of the required instruments.

The rustle of slippered feet on the old stairway behind him
went unnoticed.

After sleeping the better part of this second day away while
the marquess of Arinmede Ruin reluctantly entertained Blanche, Dillian felt
more equal to the task of keeping her protégée protected. At twenty-five, she
considered herself firmly on the shelf, but Blanche deserved to have the entire
world laid at her feet to pick and choose from. Dillian fully intended that her
cousin have those choices, Neville and his obstinate family notwithstanding.

Patting the cat the marquess had so thoughtfully provided for
his purported rats, she crept from the bed wearing the boy’s shirt and
breeches she had confiscated from an attic trunk. She would dearly like a glimpse
of the man who hid in shadows, but she needed to avoid his notice more than
satisfy her curiosity.

Stifling her overactive imagination, she ran her fingers
through her dark curls as a substitute for a comb and tiptoed downstairs to
check on Blanche, before setting about finding food.

She had to fend for herself if she wanted to eat. Blanche
had only hidden a few rolls and a chicken wing from the marquess’s eagle
eyes. Dillian quit worrying about starvation once she learned this pathetic
household contained an amazingly plentiful larder. The marquess might live in
ruin and grime, but he didn’t go hungry while doing so.

Snacking on a perfectly delicious meat pie, Dillian
navigated the back steps rather than the front ones near his lordship’s
study. She had discovered to her dismay that his lordship preferred sleeping on
his couch rather than in a bed. She’d had to leave the family history
volume rather hurriedly that first night.

But she’d learned enough from that brief foray to know
Arinmede Ruin had housed generations of Lawrences, and the eldest sons were
marquesses. Judging from the study littered with account books and tomes on
modern farming, the hooded beast ran this place.

She couldn’t see the feckless carriage driver as a
titled aristocrat, but the eccentric monster suited her fancy. Only they ought
to call him the Beast of Effingham and not the marquess.

She carried the rest of her stolen food up to the third
floor, where she had made a chamber for herself. She’d used
Blanche’s washstand for freshening herself. Now she decided to hunt for
something more suitable to wear than breeches. Clinging to the back of a
carriage, collecting all the dust of the road, hadn’t improved her only
remaining gown. Deciding if the wardrobe in Blanche’s chamber contained
ball gowns, perhaps others contained something more sensible, she set out to
explore.

Humming softly, Dillian ravaged one wardrobe after another,
claiming a shawl here, an old-fashioned gown there, a petticoat elsewhere. She
even found delicate silk stockings in the bottom drawer of a dresser in
Blanche’s room. Blanche really should have those, but she was doomed to
wear nightclothes for a while longer yet.

Perhaps this obviously bachelor household would eventually
recognize that their patient needed clean clothing. She would remind Blanche to
request some when she woke again.

Dillian felt much better once she discarded her improper
attire for a gown, even if the clothing did come from a different century. She
felt certain the gown must be French, from the Directoire period. The long
tight sleeves were a bit of a nuisance, but the simple skirt with its slightly
high waist felt familiar enough, and the light blue silk suited her, although
the scooped neck did not. The gown sported a gold corded belt and a long
fringed tassel hanging at the side. She wondered idly if she couldn’t
find sandals somewhere to match it. She felt like Marie Antoinette playing
shepherdess. Or was that Josephine? Her history left something to be desired,
but she knew good clothes when she saw them.

She slid her own dirty slippers on over the stockings and
after stirring up the fire to keep Blanche warm, she slipped back into the
hall. Blanche had told her about the note to her solicitor. Dillian feared that
had not been a smart thing to do, but she understood her cousin’s fear
that the servants might come to harm otherwise. The village was a small one,
after all. The parish couldn’t support them for long. Still, she wished
she could determine if the marquess had actually sent the note.

She wished she had some way of exploring the
marquess’s study while he went about his work during the day. The room
might contain information about Effingham, and she would like to find a few
more secret passages. But she couldn’t go in there at night while he
slept and she prowled.

Instead, she explored the library. Large gaps showed where
someone had removed volumes and never returned them. At least in here, as in
several of the downstairs rooms, the dust and grime had been eradicated and
some semblance of normality restored.

But, as in every other room she’d explored, this one,
too, had the appearance of a room stripped of its valuables. Magnificent
mahogany shelving and elaborately carved display cases sat empty of the
generations of trinkets that should have adorned them. She was familiar enough
with the houses of wealthy noblemen to know what belonged on their shelves.

She deduced that the marquess had systematically sold
anything of value not entailed to the estate. She didn’t like the sound
of that. What was the current marquess’s vice? Gambling? Women? Or just
dereliction of duty and general incompetence? The only consolation she could
find in the dismal state of affairs was that it had gone on much longer than
any one man could have accomplished on his own.

She couldn’t locate any more family histories or
volumes of interest. The marquess apparently didn’t use the library for
anything but a financial resource. The only novel she could find had been
printed in the late 1700s. The Effinghams weren’t given much to fiction,
it seemed.

Frustrated, she tried locating a panel that might lead to a
secret passage into the study. If she could slip in and out, she might learn a
few things to help her current situation. A man as financially desperate as the
marquess could very well be driven to kidnapping. Did kidnappers keep
correspondence on their vile deeds? She really didn’t want to move
Blanche if they were safe, but she didn’t feel particularly safe.

Growing bored with her inability to discover anything, Dillian
returned upstairs. Blanche slept much of the time, and she didn’t dare
disturb her rest. But the blasted beast seldom ever slept, so entertaining
herself was dangerous.

She found his attempts to chase the rats out of the walls
amusing, but it didn’t seem quite fair annoying the poor man. So far, he
had done nothing but bark gruffly and keep Blanche comfortable. She owed him a
debt for that. She leaned over and patted the cat following her about.

She wondered about the story behind the villagers who wouldn’t
come near the place. She had counted only four servants maintaining this
rambling monstrosity. She could understand why the owner stayed in the few
rooms downstairs rather than seek comfort in the spacious chambers above. But
she had time on her hands and an active mind that wouldn’t let her sit
idly. Whistling under her breath, she returned to the task she’d set
herself.

* * * *

“I tell ye, my lord, I heard her myself. The lady is
walking again. Som’at’s dreadful wrong. Could ye talk to her? Do ye
think she’s warnin’ us?”

Sleepily, Gavin ran his hand through his tousled hair. It
was a damn good thing he slept in his breeches, he concluded, or Matilda might
have got the shock of her life. Maybe he could take to wearing nightshirts, and
he could haunt these halls at night. A few glimpses of him at midnight should
scare a few people into keeping to their rooms, where they belonged.

“I think we have a serious infestation of rats, is
what I think,” he growled to placate his cook. “If you’d not
feed the wretched cat, he’d earn his keep around here. But I’ll
take a look around. Just go on back to your room. If the house is in imminent
danger of caving in on itself, you’re safe enough back there.”

“Rats! I dinna allow rats in any house I live in, my
lord. I know better than to leave food where those rascals will find it. Those
dinna be rats walking up there.”

Gavin left Matilda shaking her gray head and muttering while
he took the stairs two at a time to the upper floor. The only rats he suspected
were the two-legged kind. He still didn’t want to believe Blanche
anything but innocent. Perhaps Michael had come home without telling him. That
was a hundred times more likely.

He saw nothing at the top of the stairs or down either
corridor, but the wings stretched into eternity and contained more doors to
hide behind than he could check in one night. In stocking feet, he hurried down
the east wing to Blanche’s room. He found her sound asleep with the fire
dying to embers. He stirred it and added more of the coal he’d ordered up
from the village. She tossed restlessly on her pillow but didn’t wake.

He returned to the corridor and stood still for a minute,
listening for whatever the servants heard. As a military man, he’d
learned how to keep silent and observe the enemy. They hadn’t taught him
how to hunt ghosts, however. A cat meowed in the distance, and he felt some
grim satisfaction in blaming the feline for his discomfort.