The Marquess (51 page)
“The man’s got no title and little name to speak
of. Why was he invited?” a particularly loud, querulous baronet asked.
“He’s the brother of a marquess,” the
squire whispered back, “Or the adopted brother. I’m not quite
clear. Effingham sent him in his place.”
“The Marquess of Effingham? The American? He’s
little better than a savage himself,” the baronet replied with scorn.
Savages were more polite than to insult guests, O’Toole
mused, unoffended. Which was more unacceptable—being untitled, adopted,
or American?
As the squire led his elderly guest away, O’Toole shifted
his attention to the weapon cabinet. Simple lock. A thief wouldn’t even
need to break the glass.
He spun the coins so they sparkled in the sun while giving
due consideration to the cabinet’s contents. Expensive equipment really
should be put to good use.
He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. He’d
promised his high-and-mighty noble brother he wouldn’t stir more mischief
than necessary if he went in his place. But really, this was an opportunity
begging to happen. It couldn’t happen to a more deserving man. The squire
could regale his dinner guests with the mournful tale for years to come. He
would be doing his otherwise boring host a favor.
Cheerfully, O’Toole pocketed the coins to examine the
valuable weaponry. More canny companions would be suspicious of his sudden
geniality since it obviously didn’t arise from the rum punch he wasn’t
consuming.
A gale of feminine laughter drifted from the hallway
following a knock and bustle at the front door. The racket of more trunks and
visitors arriving resounded through the hall. The old fellow had managed quite
a house party before the Season reached full swing back in the city.
Always attuned to his surroundings, Michael listened to the
feminine chatter while admiring a particularly clever pistol. He loved watching
women in their frilly gowns, festive colors, and soft curls, loved listening to
their cheerfully chirping voices. He’d discovered, however, that they
were a serious obstacle to a man of his nature. Women saw men and thought nest.
He preferred flight.
“Such an exciting journey we had! Let us freshen up
and we’ll tell you all about it. Would you believe….” The
feminine voice trailed off as the speaker strolled out of range.
Michael froze and strained for another note of that
once-familiar voice. It had been two long years— Maybe, if he eased
closer to the door…
He daren’t. Returning the pistol to its place, he eyed
the casement overlooking the garden. His host wouldn’t miss him. He had a
well-known habit of never staying, one of many habits of which the lady
disapproved, and rightfully so, did she know the half of them.
No longer able to hear her lilting voice, he returned to the
heavy draperies of the open window.
He had plans for this household. It would be much safer if
the gentle Lady Blanche didn’t know of his presence. The wretched woman
had the face of an angel and the character to go with it. Angels frowned upon theft.
“Borrowing,” he called it, not theft. Thieves
stole for ill-gotten gain. His intentions were as pure as the driven snow. Angels
wouldn’t see it that way, and he had no particular desire to waste his
days in gaol.
* * *
“The entire weapons collection disappeared, Gavin! My
word, a thief would have needed a cart to haul off that much armament.”
Dillian Lawrence, Marchioness of Effingham, shook her head in disapproval as
she rocked her babe in her arms.
“I thought you told me Michael was supposed to attend
the house party.” Scribbling replies to the Season’s invitations
while the rain dripped outside the parlor windows, Lady Blanche Perceval raised
her head as if she asked only an innocent question.
Both her cousin, Dillian, and Dillian’s towering
husband, the Marquess of Effingham, lifted their eyebrows in surprise. Blanche
always felt fragile and insignificant next to her imposing relations. She didn’t
like being reminded of her resemblance to a porcelain figurine.
“Michael isn’t a thief,” Dillian protested
Blanche’s insinuation.
“The squire has more interest in his weapons than his
tenants,” Michael’s formidable brother corrected with an air of
resignation.
The accusation hung in the air. Michael was too clever to be
caught by a country squire, but his relations knew his dangerous predilections.
“Will he never grow up?” Blanche asked in
despair. “Or does he intend to play Robin Hood forever? Theft is theft,
no matter what face he puts upon it. One of these days, he will hang.”
The scar on the marquess’s face wrinkled with his wry
grimace.
“Michael just acts as others ought to act,”
Dillian defended him loyally.
“Men are fools, and Michael is no exception,”
Blanche replied, cutting her off. “Men think they can go about, doing as
they please, without any responsibility to their families.” As her father
had, until he was lost at sea, casting her forever into the hands of servants. “Does
he not consider what would happen to you and Gavin should he be caught?”
“He is not a thief—”
The slim figure of the Duke of Anglesey strolled into the
room to interrupt Dillian’s protest. “Creating dissension among the
ranks, are we, Cuz?” he commented, raising unperturbed eyebrows at his
relations as he regarded their frozen expressions. “Which of your suitors
are we slandering today? You will not be content until all the bachelors of
London stand with pistols drawn at one another’s heads.”
Blanche gave her paternal cousin a frosty look. “That
is none of my concern, to be sure. If you’ve come to nag me some more,
Neville, you may depart now.”
The duke returned her look with a lofty smile. “It may
be your coin that pays the staff, but the house is still mine, if you recollect
rightly. I’ll leave when I’m ready.”
Dillian laughed, handed the infant to her husband, and rose
from the sofa. “I think it time we depart the family argument. Really,
Blanche, you shouldn’t go about slandering suitors, or even poor Michael.”
“I shouldn’t?” Blanche inquired mockingly.
“Shall you meet a few of my glittering beaus? They have no true care for
what I think or feel. They merely see wealth begging to be taken. And if
Michael wanted my wealth, he would merely help himself without bothering with
the niceties of courtship.”
His Grace helped himself to a cup of tea since neither of
the women offered to pour. Like Blanche, he had come into his inheritance
unexpectedly and had not yet learned the arrogance due his rank. He lifted his
quizzing glass and peered with dubious interest at the infant in the marquess’s
arms. “Those things come dashed small, don’t they? Hard to believe
in a few years it will be a conniving female like any other.”
“They wouldn’t seem so small if you had to bear
them,” Dillian replied. “I’m making Gavin work on a bill for
female emancipation so Madeline needn’t marry.”
The duke rolled his eyes at the prospect. “You did say
you were leaving, didn’t you?” he prompted. Before Blanche could
protest, he held up his hand for silence. “I have some private matters to
discuss with you, and I shan’t leave until I have done with them.”
“We’re leaving now.” Dillian brushed a
kiss across Blanche’s cheek. “Behave yourself for a change. Neville
can’t help who he is.”
Blanche frowned but gave her godchild a wistful kiss. “I
wish I could buy one of these for my own.”
“Well, buy the proper husband, and you can have one,
too,” Gavin said crudely, pushing his wife toward the door. “We’ll
see you this evening.”
Blanche waited until all sign of her maternal cousin and her
husband disappeared before returning her regard to the duke. “I’m
retiring to the country,” she announced, forestalling Neville’s
offensive with her own.
“You can retire to Australia for all I care, but I
need those papers signed allowing me to fence in the pasture before you go. We’re
losing sheep, and my hands are tied until you agree to purchase the fencing.”
Blanche didn’t like arguing with Neville, but someone
must, since their grandfather had left his considerable wealth in her incapable
hands. “If we fence the pasture, the Goodmans can’t take their cows
to water. And Nanny Smith is too old for climbing a stile every time she visits
her daughter. Move your silly sheep elsewhere.”
“Those sheep are the only thing keeping me in frock
coats and cravats!” Neville replied. “This situation is no longer
tolerable, Blanche. I am doing my damnedest to keep afloat with the meager
profits of the entailed land, but you stand in the way of every opportunity to
increase them. This cannot continue. Either find yourself a sensible husband
who can deal with these matters on some rational basis, or marry me as
grandfather intended. I cannot live my life tied by your golden chains.”
Worn by what seemed like a lifetime of these arguments,
Blanche fingered the faint scars at her hairline and stared into the distance.
Neville usually had the patience of a saint. She had never seen him so
frustrated and harassed before. She didn’t like admitting that she was
the cause, but she didn’t like lying to herself either.
“Find a wealthy wife, Neville. Then your solicitors
may talk to my solicitors and we’ll never argue again,” she
answered, a shade too brightly.
“Your solicitor
is
my solicitor,” Neville
said with impatience, “And this is no time for facetiousness. If you’ve
discarded all potential suitors and are down to considering that buffoon
brother of Gavin’s, I think your wisest choice is marrying me.”
Mulishly, Blanche refused to consider her duty. Of course a
society of men expected her to marry and hand over her trust to her husband. He
could spend it as he chose while she would have no more purpose than producing
his children on a regular basis.
Actually, she wanted the children. But should she marry, the
children would belong to her husband. She’d had many long nights of
convalescence, staring into the mirror as her scarred visage emerged from
bandages, to understand that. Men did not want her for herself, but for what
she represented. All those years of her father’s neglect did not give her
any aspirations to more. If she could not have love, she would not marry.
She might look like a fragile porcelain ornament, but she
refused to break like one.
Blanche leveled a gaze on her cousin. “I have no
desire to be your duchess, Neville. Court Lady Angela. She will suit you, and
she has mountains of money.”
Not pleased, Neville returned his tea cup to the table. “I
cannot come begging every time I wish something done, Blanche. And Lady Angela
laughs like a horse. I’m not that desperate yet.”
He stalked out, leaving Blanche contemplating the newly
arrived sun rays bleaching the color from her velvet cushions. She
couldn’t decide whether she felt more like the fading cushion or the dust
motes dancing on the insubstantial beams.
Perhaps she should do as her mother had done, retire to her
bed and let everyone wait on her and never be disturbed by another decision
again.
