My Fair Princess (14 page)

When the man made a move in her direction, Leverton stepped between them. “Don't even think about it.” His tone held a deadly threat that only a fool would ignore.

The leader was no fool because he put up a placating hand. “I won't touch a hair on her precious head. But I want to see what's so important she was willin' to shoot somebody.”

“It's a bleedin' necklace,” his brother said. “With rubies.”

Gillian stiffened, mentally cursing.

“I reckon that'll even the score a bit,” the leader said. He let out a laugh as he looked down at his brother. “Not sure you'll get any, though. Not for lettin' a pampered miss get the best of you.”

His men guffawed. When the laughter died away, the gang leader jerked a head in her direction, and one of his men stalked over to Gillian.

She bared her lips in a snarl. “Don't touch me.”

“For Christ's sake,” Leverton sighed. “Give him the necklace.”

“No.” It felt like she'd be losing her stepfather for a second time. “They can have anything else, but not that.”

The gang leader once more pressed his gun to the back of Leverton's skull. Gillian couldn't help flinching, and Lady Filby sucked in a horrified gasp.

The duke displayed no fear. In fact, he looked ready to kill someone. Probably Gillian.

“My love, please give them the necklace,” her mother said in a quiet voice. “It's not worth it.”

Gillian stared at the duke, who gazed back at her with an ironic lift to his brows. She was quite sure the gang leader wouldn't shoot Leverton. After all, no one in his right mind would shoot a duke.

But they shot my stepfather, didn't they?
She reached up and yanked the chain, not even bothering to undo the clasp. “Here,” she said, flinging it at the gang leader. It felt like her heart went with it.

The gang leader caught the necklace and held it up to the light of the carriage lamp. His scarf muffled his satisfied grunt. “Aye, that'll do.” He waved a gun at Gillian's mother. “Now give me yer purse.”

When Mamma whimpered, Gillian had to swallow a curse. When they traveled, her mother carried a few of her most precious jewels in her reticule, reluctant to consign them even to Maria's care.

Her mother handed over her reticule. Gillian could do nothing but squeeze her hand in sympathy, while rage burned through her brain like a firestorm.

When the bandit moved down to Lady Filby, she bridled. “Your man already cleaned me out.”

“Give me that bauble on your wrist,” the leader ordered.

Muttering, the countess flung her gold bracelet into the mud at the gang leader's feet. While Leverton scowled at his sister, Gillian had nothing but admiration for her. She understood the urge to cling to the shreds of one's dignity even when a situation was hopeless.

With a shrug, the gang leader retrieved the bracelet. “A little dirt never hurt no one.”

“At least he's a practical villain,” Gillian muttered. She heard Lady Filby choke back a laugh.

“I trust that now concludes our business,” Leverton said, “given the very substantial haul you made with only a trifling inconvenience.”

The gang leader gave him a mocking bow. “Aye, Yer Grace, it does. But don't forget what I told you. Talk about this little encounter, and trouble will surely come yer way.”

“Your words of warning are engraved on my brain,” the duke said. His tone was as dry as the dirt beneath their feet.

The smugglers hoisted the injured man into one of the carts, and they soon melted into the marshes and the encroaching night. Soon, even the rumble of the muffled wheels faded into silence. They were alone, as if the episode had never happened.

Leverton crouched behind the coachman, struggling with the rope around the man's wrists. “John, do you have a knife? This rope is wet.”

Gillian pulled up her skirt and slipped the knife from her boot. “Take mine.”

The duke shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

She repressed a sigh as she handed the blade to him. Clearly, whatever good will she'd built up with Leverton had died an ignominious death. Gillian told herself she didn't care.

The duke swiftly freed his men, but cut off their apologies. “There will be ample opportunity to discuss our mutual failings at a later time. For now, I'd like to get the ladies to Fenfield Manor as quickly as possible. Especially since those damned smugglers took your weapons.”

“You still have my pistol,” Gillian said. “I have extra shot and powder with my nightgear, but it's tied up in the boot.”

“How inconvenient,” Leverton snapped.

She struggled to hold on to her rising temper. “It probably wouldn't do much good anyway. It's a woman's pistol, only good for close quarters.”

“Unbelievable,” he said again, rather unnecessarily, Gillian thought.

“For God's sake, Charles,” Lady Filby said, “may we please get back in this confounded coach and be on our way? I'm sure the contessa is chilled to the bone. I certainly am.”

Wincing with guilt, Gillian turned to her mother. “Yes, Mamma, let's get you inside.”

“I beg your pardon,” Leverton said. “Please, madam, take my hand.”

Gillian glared at him. “We don't need your help.”

As she assisted her mother into the carriage, she swore he was grinding his teeth. Gillian was tempted to snipe at him, but the sadness on her mother's face held her back. She hadn't seen such a haunted look in Mamma's eyes for a long time. “There, darling,” she murmured, as she tucked a thick woolen shawl about her mother's legs. “Before you know it, we'll be there, and you can have a nice cup of tea and go to bed.”

“Thank you, my dear,” her mother said in a voice devoid of emotion. Gillian's heart seemed to drop into a pit.

A moment later, the carriage lurched forward. Gillian fussed over her mother, doing her best to ignore the chilly silence and the duke.

His sister was the first to speak. “Well, that was a first.”

Gillian lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

“My first robbery,” Lady Filby said with a rueful smile. “And I do hope it's my last.”

“I'm truly sorry, Elizabeth,” Leverton said in a somber tone. He looked at Gillian's mother. “Madam, I hope you can forgive me for allowing this to happen.”

“Please, Your Grace,” Mamma said with a wan smile, “this is simply an unfortunate circumstance of life. There is no need to apologize.”

“I wouldn't say that,” Gillian couldn't help muttering.

The duke's expression went from concerned to aggravated in one second flat. “Do you have something you'd like to say, Miss Dryden?”

“Charles, don't start,” his sister warned.

He ignored her. “Go ahead, Miss Dryden. Get it off your chest.”

“Very well,” Gillian said. “This could have been avoided if we'd been properly escorted and armed.”

Something flickered in his gaze. “It's never been necessary before. These roads have always been safe.”

“Not according to your sister.” Gillian let out a disgusted snort. “And people say Sicily is dangerous.”

Leverton shot an irate glance at Lady Filby, who held up her hands. “I didn't say it was dangerous,” she protested. “Just that smugglers frequently travel in these parts.”

“That sounds dangerous to me,” Gillian added triumphantly.

“You are wrong, Miss Dryden,” the duke said. “Smugglers generally wish to avoid drawing the attention of the authorities. Tonight's encounter was simply a combination of bad luck and bad timing.”

Bad luck? Anger burned at the thought of what she and her mother had lost tonight. “You should have stood up to them,” she said.

“Apparently I didn't need to, given your bloodthirsty tendencies. Savage, indeed.”

Gillian flinched as if he'd just slapped her. Actually, she'd have preferred a slap. Leverton had a way with words, both for good and ill.

“That's quite enough, Charles,” Lady Filby exclaimed.

“My daughter doesn't deserve that, sir,” Mamma added in a tone of wounded dignity. “She was very upset by what happened tonight, as were we all.”

Gillian squeezed her mother's hand.

Leverton closed his eyes for a few moments. When he opened them, he'd regained some of his control. “I apologize, Miss Dryden.” He leaned forward. “But was that blasted necklace worth risking our lives? Hell, I would have bought you another one myself for all the trouble it caused us.”

He clearly didn't understand why this situation was so upsetting, both to Gillian and to her mother. Sadly, it appeared that Leverton was not that different from most of the men she'd known, ones who simply expected the women in their lives to fall obediently into line. To not actually fight for what they believed in. Only men, it appeared, were allowed to do that.

“Since you are so utterly devoid of feeling, Your Grace, I will not even try to explain,” she said.

And then Gillian clamped her lips shut and refused to say another word.

Chapter Thirteen

Charles stretched his feet out to the fire, letting the peace of the old manor finally settle around him. Fenfield Manor might not be the most modern of houses, but its sturdy tranquility appealed to him. He didn't spend nearly as much time here as he should, since his larger estates—especially his principle seat—demanded more of his attention. Perhaps it was time to redress that situation, though. He had an unsettling notion that the gang they'd stumbled across was conducting runs across his lands. The entire affair seemed too well organized to be coincidental.

He could and did turn a blind eye to various petty offenses committed by locals, who often struggled to make ends meet. But full-scale runs across estate lands by clearly dangerous gangs? That he was not prepared to accept. Thinking about how things might have gone worse in their ugly encounter today raised the hairs on the back of his neck. What might have happened to Gillian—what might
still
happen to her, given her reckless ways—made his blood run as cold as the North Atlantic in winter.

In a matching armchair next to him, Elizabeth let out a weary sigh as she swirled her brandy in an old, cut-crystal goblet. She'd retreated to the library with him after Gillian and her mother had gone off to bed.

To say that their good nights had been frosty was laughably understated. Gillian had refused to even look at him. She'd simply snatched her candle from his hand and stalked off after the housekeeper. Outrage had been plain in every slender line of her body.

Not that she had good reason to be outraged. Not like he did. After all, it wasn't every day that a duke was told to sod off by a young lady who was a guest under his roof. That had been a first, one so surprising that he'd almost burst into laughter. He was restrained only by the horrified gasps from his butler, housekeeper, and especially the contessa, clearly appalled by her daughter's behavior.

His sister, however, had made little effort to hold back her snicker.

Gillian seemed incapable of self-restraint, particularly in situations where it counted most—when their lives were in danger or, possibly even more alarming, when out in polite company. The girl was more adept at dealing with thieves and murderers than she was with oafish aristocrats.

“Honestly, Charles, I don't know what you're going to do with her,” Elizabeth said, echoing his thoughts. “Gillian is a darling girl, but she's reckless and outspoken in the extreme. I'm not sure she can ever be brought up to scratch, at least not by
ton
standards.”

He put his empty glass on the occasional table between them. “I'm beginning to think it's a hopeless cause. It's a miracle she didn't get us all killed today.”

“I'd say it's a miracle that
she
didn't kill someone. To be fair to her, the man was an utter beast. He threatened to take her out behind a tree and . . .” She waved her arm, obviously not wanting to say the word.

The idea of such violence befalling Gillian made him ill. His worst fear today had been that the women would suffer the basest kind of assault. It was why he'd been so willing to settle with the gang leader, even though Gillian had clearly thought him a coward for doing so. But he couldn't risk a confrontation when they'd been outgunned, outmanned, and stuck in the middle of nowhere.

Fortunately, once the smugglers had realized they'd held up the Duke of Leverton, negotiations had proceeded fairly smoothly. Charles had handed over the fifty pounds in his wallet in exchange for the leader's promise that he and his men would fade away in the evening mists. Just as Charles had been issuing an additional warning that he would pursue justice if the gang ever conducted subsequent runs across Leverton estate lands, all hell had broken loose in the carriage.

“Gillian should have handed over the necklace immediately,” he said.

Elizabeth grimaced. “I agree, but it clearly held great sentimental value, as did her mother's jewelry.”

“Contessa di Paterini has more sense than her daughter. She didn't kick up a fuss at all.” He narrowed his gaze on his sister. “Unlike you.”

“The poltroon had already cleaned me out,” she protested. “As far as I was concerned, I'd contributed more than enough to the evening's haul.”

“We all did. Our combined contributions were substantially more valuable than the proceeds of that run, I'd wager.”

“I don't know if you got a good look at Gillian's necklace. She claimed the jewels were paste, but I suspect they were genuine rubies.”

“No piece of jewelry is worth one's life.”

Elizabeth expelled an exasperated breath. “No, but it wasn't the monetary value that made it precious to Gillian. And you insulted the poor girl when you suggested as much. Really, Charles, it's not like you to be so clumsy.”

“I will admit that it was not my finest moment.” There was no doubt that Gillian had a knack for making him lose his temper. But how could one waifish girl be so bloody difficult to handle? He was Leverton, for God's sake. Usually, a simple look would correct even the most obstinate person.

“Offering to replace their stolen jewelry was quite stupid,” she said. “They're not poor, and you offended their dignity.”

“I was trying to make things better,” he said, feeling a tad defensive.

“Gillian and her mother were upset because the items obviously had emotional value that far exceeded their monetary worth. To suggest otherwise was vulgar.”

“It amazes me that people think
I'm
a snob. You're much worse.”

She laughed. “What utter rot. Everyone knows I'm the nicest person in the family. And you're not a snob, Charles. You never were.”

He flashed her a wry smile. Their father had been a snob par excellence, and Charles had always hated the idea that he might be seen as one too. Having standards was one thing. Looking down on people was another.

“And you're only occasionally patronizing,” Elizabeth added.

He had to laugh.

His sister's smile faded as she went back to swirling her brandy and staring into the fire. “You do have your work cut out for you with Gillian. She clearly finds you heavy-handed.”

“Perhaps, but there was no earthly way I could agree to her mad scheme.”

When they'd arrived at Fenfield Manor after a fraught forty-five minutes of silence, Gillian had demanded that he organize a search party to apprehend the smugglers. When he'd tried to explain how fruitless a search would be, especially after nightfall, she'd insisted that he give her a horse and a servant to accompany her. Gillian had made it abundantly clear that she had no intention of sitting idly by while criminals roamed at large with her belongings.

Charles had shut that idea down, ultimately threatening to send her back to her grandmother in London if she didn't comply. By continuing to argue, she'd forced him into a terse and perhaps too harsh assessment of her behavior. That's when she'd told him to sod off. She hadn't been one whit disturbed by the fact that they were yelling like fishwives in front of half the household.

“I understand,” Elizabeth said. “But to suggest that she was suffering from hysterics was rather like waving a large red flag in front of a bull.”

“I suppose it would have been more accurate to say she was on the verge of murdering someone. But I never like to point out the obvious.”

“If she were going to murder anyone, I would think it would be you.”

“Don't I know it,” he said in a gloomy voice.

The Gillian project had turned into a disaster. His social capital was strong enough to allow the girl to recover from her London escapades, but not if she was going to fight him every damn step of the way. She had no more desire to become a proper lady than he had to join a troupe of jugglers.

What the girl truly wanted was to return to Sicily, the one place that felt like home. Knowing Gillian, she'd fight for the only life that made sense to her and eventually batter her resistant family into submission. True, there were issues regarding her safety if she returned, but Charles felt sure that Griffin Steele could manage them effectively. The former crime lord was powerful, dangerous, and, as her brother, the man best positioned to ensure her welfare.

That being the case, it was probably time for Charles to give up—even if he did have the most annoying feeling that he would miss the blasted girl a great deal more than he should.

“Lizzie, do you ever get bored?” he asked abruptly.

She twisted in her chair to peer at him, her brows winging up in surprise. “Heavens, Charles, where did that question come from?”

“From curiosity, I suppose.”

She studied him with a shrewdness he found rather disconcerting.

“I do not,” she finally said. “I have two small children and a husband who, as lovely as he is, needs a great deal of managing. Add in our mother and our sister—both quite demanding, as you know—along with two estates and a townhouse to look after. No, Charles, I don't have time to be bored.” She cocked her head. “Do you?”

“Sometimes.” He went back to studying the fire. “I suppose that makes me sound like a coxcomb.”

“You are the farthest thing from a coxcomb. But I believe I know what your problem is.”

“Do tell, sister dear,” he said, casting her a wry smile.

“It's because you're so powerful, so . . . imposing. Everyone bows and scrapes and instantly agrees with you. No one ever dares stand up to you, except me, of course. I believe you are quite in need of someone to disagree with you. To challenge you.” She gave him what could only be described as an evil grin. “And I fancy I know just the person to fit the bill.”

“Perhaps I should simply hire a few toddlers to keep around the house instead. Or borrow yours whenever I feel a brown study coming on.”

“Perhaps you should get married and have some of your own.”

“And on that note,” he said, rising from his chair, “I'm going to bed.”

“Coward,” she murmured, also getting to her feet.

“Elizabeth, I have no intention of having this particular discussion again.”

The subject of marriage never failed to put him in a bad mood. He'd already had one near disaster, and had yet to find the woman who would tempt him to make another attempt.

“You're not getting any younger, Charles. Sooner than you think, you'll be drooling into your soup and tottering about in your decrepitude.”

“Thank you for that lovely image.”

A quiet knock interrupted them. “Now what?” Elizabeth sighed.

“One hopes Gillian isn't raising a commotion. I think I'd rather be robbed again than have further dealings with her tonight. Enter,” he said, raising his voice.

The door opened, and the Contessa di Paterini peeked her head inside. “May I come in?” she asked in a hesitant voice.

“Of course.” Charles took her hand and led her to the chair he'd just vacated. She settled into it with a sigh, looking pale and wan, although still neatly coiffed and dressed in her dinner clothes. He exchanged a glance with his sister, because the contessa should have been abed an hour ago.

“Would you like something to drink, madam? Perhaps a brandy or a sherry?” he asked.

“No, thank you. I'll try not to keep you any longer than necessary, but I do need to speak with you tonight, Your Grace.” She smiled, and for a moment looked almost as young and as pretty as her daughter. The contessa was still a lovely woman, with an appealing, feminine charm. Gillian greatly resembled her, at least physically.

“I'm sure you wish to speak privately with my brother,” Elizabeth said. “I'll wish you both good night.”

The contessa held up a hand. “No, please stay, Lady Filby. You have been so kind to lend us your countenance, and I have no wish to keep secrets from you. Besides, you were also affected by Gillian's behavior tonight. I'd like to explain why she acted as she did.”

“You certainly do not owe me any explanations,” Elizabeth said with a kind smile.

Still she sat down, as Charles had known she would. His sister loved nothing more than a good gossip. But he also knew she had Gillian's best interests at heart.

The contessa smoothed her cambric skirts, perhaps taking a moment to order her thoughts. “It's hard to know where to start.”

Charles propped a shoulder against the mantelpiece. “Why not start with her reaction to the robbery? She seems singularly focused on recovering what was taken, even though she must know how unlikely that is.”

“There are two reasons Gillian behaved the way she did,” her mother said. “The first is that her stepfather was killed by bandits.”

“I'm so sorry,” Elizabeth said. “How dreadful for both of you.”

“Gillian's emotions regarding my husband's death are quite complicated,” the contessa replied. “She has what one might call an exaggerated sense of justice.”

“I don't understand,” Elizabeth said.

“The men who killed my husband were never brought to justice. My daughter has not been able to forget that.”

Charles raised his eyebrows. “Did Gillian not redress that situation, herself?”

“Goodness, Charles,” his sister exclaimed. “Don't be ridiculous. How could a young girl bring a band of murderers to justice?”

“After the local authorities gave up on finding my husband's killers, Gillian spent several years hunting them down,” the contessa said.

Elizabeth's mouth gaped open. “Ah, what did she do once she found them?”

“She killed them,” the contessa replied.