Nearly a Lady (2 page)

Something, the marquess thought, that might lighten the shadows his brother attempted to hide behind a cheerful wit and careless smile. “Playing knight-errant will be good for Gideon.”

Kincaid gave a slight nod in acknowledgment but hesitated before speaking. “Have you considered that . . . some of the information you seek might not be here?”

The marquess chose to ignore the obvious implications of what was being suggested. “If it is not, it is with the dowager marchioness. When we find her . . .” Then they would find everything the woman had stolen over the years. “When we find her . . . we’ll find Rose.”

When Kincaid spoke again, his voice was soft and laced with the compassion of an old friend. “It has been more than twelve years, my lord. Twelve years without word.
Please
. You must resign yourself to the possibility that Rose is not to be found. There is every possibility that the lady is simply gone.”

“I’d know.” The marquess refused to look up from the desk, refused to give in to the doubt that had sat side by side with hope since he’d discovered his stepmother’s betrayal. “Rose is not gone. She is merely . . . lost for the moment.”

Like Lady Engsly, he realized, and Miss Blythe.

“It occurs to me, Kincaid, that this family has an unfortunate habit of misplacing its women.”

M
ove so much as a finger, and I’ll blow a hole clean through you.”

Well
. . .
Damn
.

During the long, long ride from London to Enscrum, Scotland, Lord Gideon Haverston had envisioned his reception at Murdoch House playing out in any number of ways. By most accounts, he was an optimistic—occasionally even fanciful—man, and so it was only to be expected that the vast majority of those ways had included the barest minimum of recriminations and tears, and an astounding amount of gratitude and rejoicing.

Use of the word “hero” had not been ruled out.

Not once, however, had he imagined at the end of his journey to find a house devoid of life, a stable sheltering a brigand, and the phrase “blow a hole clean through you” being whispered in the dark while a gun muzzle pressed uncomfortably into the small of his back.

Still, he’d had colder welcomes.

“If it’s money you’re after, you’ll find it difficult to obtain unless one of us reaches for my pocket. Although, they say there’s a man in Russia who can move objects with mere thoughts. There’s a fine talent. Perhaps you’re familiar with it?”

A short silence followed that statement.

“You’re a cold one, aren’t you?” the voice finally hissed. “And I’m not the thief here.”

Young, Gideon thought, very young, and afraid. He was well acquainted with the boyish habit of hiding fear with bravado. He’d heard it often enough on the deck of the
Perseverance
—the false deepening of the voice, the underlying tremor, and that quality of thickness as words forced their way past the ball of terror lodged in the throat.

But they had been. He’d not suffered fools on his ship.

The lad behind him was running, like as not, and thought to spend the night in a pile of hay. Better all around if he was put down before he did something they would both regret.

Gideon shifted his weight to his good leg, pivoted, knocked the barrel of the rifle away with one hand, and threw his other out in a fist.

A sliver of moonlight cut through the open door, and in the space of a heartbeat he saw trousers, bosom, and a long braid.

A woman
.

Instinct had him pulling his fist back before it connected with flesh. No good deed goes unpunished, and for this particularly stupid act of chivalry, Gideon’s penalty was swift, painful, and humiliating. He doubled over when the butt of the rifle slammed into his stomach, yelped when a sharp knee plowed into his nose, then slipped into blackness when something hard bounced off his head with a whopping crack.

 

I
s he dead, then? Did we kill him?”

Winnefred leaned over her friend Lilly, who, in turn, was leaning over the man they’d just done their best to beat senseless. As their best had proved remarkably successful, she couldn’t help but feel a touch of smugness along with relief and lingering terror. He should have kept his thieving to the house, the blighter, instead of coming after the animals.

“Because if we did, we’ll need to hide the body straightaway. What if someone comes looking for him?”

“Then they will no doubt wonder how his horse came to be in our stable.” Lilly crouched down in front of the prone man. “And
we
did not kill him.
I
struck him with the pan. You merely kicked him about a bit.”

Though it was too dark to be seen, Winnefred felt that comment merited a roll of the eyes. “I’ll be sure to ask the vicar to make that distinction at our respective funerals. Hanged murderesses are allowed funerals, aren’t they?”

“With any luck, we’ll never know. He’s still breathing.”

“Oh.”

Winnefred felt rather than saw her friend’s gaze. “Your regard for the sanctity of human life is most touching.”

“You’re the one who thumped him about the head,” Winnefred reminded her. “Besides, a dead body is easier to hide than a live one . . . Shall we tie him up, do you think?”

“I suppose. His coat feels . . . rather expensive.”

“I imagine there are some monetary benefits to being an outlaw. Would you ever consider—?”

“No.”

“Pity. No one would ever suspect you.” With hands that still wanted to shake, Winnefred retrieved two small lengths of rope and set about tying the man’s hands while Lilly worked on his feet.

“He’s wearing good boots and trousers of superfine,” Lilly said. “I want to see him in the light. Fetch a candle—”

“No. We’ve only a few candles left. I’ll not waste one on the likes of him.”

“Freddie.”

“Grab his feet, then. I’ll take his shoulders. We’ll drag him outside.”

Years of physical labor had left both women with strong backs and capable hands, but it was an awkward business hauling a grown man out the stable doors. There was a great deal of huffing on Lilly’s part, and no small amount of swearing on Winnefred’s.

His feet hit the moonlight first, and Winnefred couldn’t help but notice that Lilly had been right about the boots—they were very nice indeed. She saw the trousers next, then the tailored coat. At last his face came into view—dark hair and long lashes, aquiline nose and hard jaw. His mouth was wide with—

“Oh, sweet heaven!” Lilly’s horrified gasp seemed unnaturally loud in the dark.

“What? What is it?” Winnefred hastily readjusted her grip as the man’s feet slipped from Lilly’s hands and fell to the ground.

“It’s him. It’s him. It’s . . . Wait . . .” Lilly bent closer to his face. “It isn’t him.”

“For pity’s sake, Lilly—”

“It’s the other one. It’s Gideon.”

“Gideon?” Winnefred echoed. “Lord Gideon Haverston, do you mean? Brother to our generous benefactor? Here?” She bent forward for another, more narrow-eyed look at his features. Then let his head drop to the hard earth.

“Winnefred, what are you thinking?” To Winnefred’s bemusement, Lilly hissed the words in a whisper, as if Haverston’s condition had suddenly and miraculously improved from unconscious to merely sleeping.

“You’re absolutely right. That was quite careless of me.” She straightened and planted her hands on her hips. “I should have aimed for a pointed rock.”

“Oh, no. Oh, no. What have we done?”

“Missed a fine opportunity, in my opinion. We could be planning his trip to the bottom of the loch right now, instead of . . . Why the
devil
are you untying him?”

“We’ll explain,” Lilly breathed, sounding a bit hysterical as she tore at the knots. “Terrible mistake. Two women alone—”

“Lilly, stop.” Winnefred bent down again and closed her hand over her friend’s. “We’ve been alone for years and he’s never concerned himself over it before.”

“Perhaps he wasn’t aware—”

“He was.” Winnefred hesitated before she spoke again. She’d never planned to confess what she’d done, but she couldn’t see a way around it now. “I wrote him last winter when you were so ill. I asked him to speak to his brother on our behalf.”

“He never answered,” Lilly guessed dully.

“Oh, he answered,” Winnefred muttered. She would remember the scathing insult of that reply for the rest of her life. “We have to go.”

She pulled Lilly to her feet and tugged her toward the gardener’s cottage. “Pack what you can easily carry. We’ll take his horse. With any luck, we’ll be long gone by the time he gets himself untied.”

“We can’t just leave him.”

Winnefred shoved Lilly inside and slammed the door behind her decisively. “We can, and we will. If I can leave Claire”—and oh, how that thought tore at her heart—“I can bloody well leave
him
.”

“Claire is a
goat
, Winnefred.”

“Nearer to human than a Haverston.”

She threw open an old chest, pushed aside the two gowns reserved for trips into town, and dug out the leather pouch that held the coins she’d managed to scrimp together in savings. “Nearly a half pound,” she whispered, jingling the pouch.

“Oh, well.” Lilly let out a breathy laugh of disbelief. “We’ll tour the continent in style, then.”

“I should think it’s preferable to touring a prison—”

“Wait.” Lilly reached into the trunk and pulled out a gown. “I’ve an idea.”

T
ake off your trousers, Freddie.”

“What if we have need to run? My legs will tangle in all this material. You should put yours back on, Lilly.”

Over the course of his one-and-thirty years, Gideon had woken to the sounds of a great many conversations on a great variety of topics. None, however, had been quite so strange, nor quite so entertaining, as the one he was currently overhearing. In deference to both curiosity and the painful throbbing of his head, he kept his eyes closed, his breathing even, and simply listened.

“Your legs will tangle whether or not you’ve trousers on underneath.”

“But I can throw the dress off, can’t I?”

“You look suspiciously lumpy.”

“I feel suspiciously stupid. I can’t believe I’ve agreed to this.”

Gideon heard the soft rustle of skirts draw near and caught the faintest hint of lavender and hay. He found it a pleasant combination.

“He’s very handsome. Shame he’s such a rotter.”

“
Hush
. Honestly, what if he should hear you?”

“Not much chance of that, I think. He hasn’t moved for hours.” Gideon sensed the woman bending over him, and then a rag, cool and damp, was placed on his brow with something approaching, but not quite reaching, gentleness. “Are you absolutely certain he’s not dead?”

Because the young woman sounded just a mite eager to find her friend’s assessment of his well-being in error, Gideon thought it might be best to open his eyes.

His vision was filled by the woman from the stable. The braid was gone, he noticed. Light brown hair with broad gold streaks had been pulled up rather inartfully to frame an oval face. She wasn’t beautiful by society’s standards. Her nose was a trifle too prominent, her lips a touch too wide, and the near explosion of freckles across otherwise creamy skin was certainly unfashionable. And yet, the overall effect held an indefinable appeal.

A different kind of beauty, he decided. Not more, nor less, than the ideal held by his peers. Simply . . . other. Only a fool would insist a qualitative decision be made between two varieties of beauty. One would always be found lacking when the other was used as a measurement. Like comparing a bouquet of hothouse roses and a nosegay of wildflowers. Or like comparing the proverbial apples and oranges. Why apples and oranges? he wondered.