The Marquess (15 page)

Of course. That was true. Dillian took a deep breath and
tried again. “I would send Blanche some traveling clothes and a message
before you go. I cannot believe it safe for her to travel, nor for her to stay
here. I would warn her of the consequences and suggest other arrangements.
Perhaps I should return with you.”

She felt rather than saw his sharp look at this suggestion.

“That is not the brightest thing you have ever said,
Miss Whitnell,” he said stiffly. “I will return here for any
messages you wish to send, but that is all.”

She disliked it, but she understood it. She still found it
unnerving being addressed by her father’s name instead of her
mother’s after all these years. Blanche should never have revealed so much.
Unable to argue, however, she nodded and started back toward the marked path
without a word of farewell.

She heard him following at a discreet distance, but she
didn’t acknowledge him. She must have been all about in her wits thinking
she could hold a marquess here to protect her home. It was Blanche she worried
about now. Blanche could find no safety here. The episode tonight proved that.
Somehow, she must force the miserable man to let Blanche stay in his Gothic
ruin.

Without power or money, she had very few means of coercing
him to do anything.

“Will there be anything else this evening, Miss
Reynolds?” the butler asked with all the deference accorded the mistress
of the house.

Dillian didn’t know what Blanche had told the servants
when she first came here as Blanche’s companion, but she had always been
treated in the same manner as Blanche. The understanding between the cousins
might make that appropriate, but the servants knew nothing of their familial
relationship. Or supposedly, they didn’t. Just because Dillian’s
mother had grown up here did not mean that the servants knew Dillian’s
identity. Her mother had never returned here after her marriage.

There were any number of people named Reynolds in this
country. She hoped no one knew her real identity. Neville would choke on his
fury should he learn Blanche had hired the notorious Colonel “Slippery”
Whitnell’s daughter as companion, even if she was Blanche’s cousin.

But that was all water over the dam now. Dillian made a
gesture of dismissal to the butler. “Go on to bed, Jenkins. Make sure
Jamie is summoned to patrol. I heard some of the Radicals were in the village
today.”

“They have no reason to come here, miss,”
Jenkins replied indignantly. “The Grange has always been good to its
people.”

She had no desire to explain that other forces might be at
work besides rebellious farmers. She thanked him and wandered up the stairs.

The marquess hadn’t returned to report what had
happened with the magistrate. Now she not only had to worry over Effingham’s
whereabouts, but if the intruder might have escaped. Would he have had
confederates who might have freed him, harming Lord Effingham in the process?
She should know better than to worry, but she had little else to do.

Perhaps she should go back to Arinmede and look after
Blanche. She would feel much better if she knew Blanche was all right, that her
sight was recovering, that they might escape somewhere safe shortly. Once
Blanche recovered, they could tour the Continent for the next six months. Neville
would have a hard time finding them there.

If she returned to Arinmede, would the marquess really throw
her out?

Instead of going to her own room, she wandered down the hall
to the corner chamber. These rooms had been furnished as family rooms with a
library and salon and dining parlor. The front corner provided a lady’s
study, with a delicate Queen Anne writing desk, chairs for reading and sewing,
and several shelves of books. She had need of a good book tonight.

She dismissed Sir Walter Scott and picked up one of Miss
Austen’s social satires. She’d read it before, but she’d read
everything in here at least once. Miss Austen was always worth reading again.

She still couldn’t force herself back to her room. If
the marquess climbed any more vines, he would have to look for her here instead
of her chamber. She felt morally more secure in this proper setting. She also
felt better with a view of the road. She settled in a window seat with a lamp,
and occasionally peeked behind the draperies to see if anything had changed.

She just felt uneasy. The dogs had arrived with their
trainer, but they were new to their job. She couldn’t rely on them yet.
She couldn’t imagine the geese patrolling the yard with any regularity.
How had the marquess passed by them last night if so?

Hours later, her head nodded over the book, and she had to
jerk herself awake. Yawning, she admitted she couldn’t manage this vigil
any longer. Feeling a vague sense of disappointment that the marquess
hadn’t returned, Dillian peeked out the window again before giving up for
the night.

She blinked and rubbed her eyes. Surely, she didn’t
see...

She did see. She saw a line of blazing orange flames
marching up the drive, held in the hands of a mob of men.

She wouldn’t panic. The Grange was all she had, even
if it wasn’t hers. She would protect it at any cost.

Dropping her book, Dillian flew down the hall, screaming at
the top of her lungs. She didn’t scream from panic but as the fastest way
of arousing the household, both upstairs and down. She heard one of the maids
in the attic fall from her bed with a thump. She hit the stairway and raced
down, yelling for Jenkins and Jamie.

Fully garbed for his rounds, Jamie waited for her at the
bottom of the staircase. “What is it, Miss Dillian? What is it?”

“Outside! Get everyone outside! They’re coming
with torches.”

To a household of servants who had already been burned from
their home once, that cry sent shouts of fear and fury careening through the
hallways. Jamie raced to the back of the house to wake the cooks and kitchen
help; Dillian raced up the back stairs to make certain all the maids had heard
her.

The chaotic sound of dogs barking and howling, mixed with
the outraged squawks of a gaggle of geese and the gonging of the alarm bell
turned the silence into a nightmarish cacophony. Dillian didn’t need the
hysterical screams of the maids adding to the chaos.

“Quiet! Run to the kitchen and fetch pails and
kettles, then get outside. No one has set fire to anything yet, and I’ll
be blamed if I let them. I need your help. Now, hurry.”

As her calmness and orders sank in, they raced to obey,
chattering the whole time but no longer screaming. The Grange staff had always
been orderly. She gave thanks for that now. They helped quiet Blanche’s
town staff who were convinced they would all burn in their beds this time.

Grateful she hadn’t changed into her nightshift,
Dillian grabbed one of her grandfather’s old hunting guns from the study.
Jenkins came running up with his shirt only half on and his trousers partially
buttoned, a far cry from the staid and respectable butler of earlier. She
handed him another of the hunting guns.

“Hand out the rest of the guns to any of the men you
trust. I’ll see that mob dead before one inch of this place is burned,”
she said furiously.

Jenkins grabbed a handful of blunderbusses and shotguns, and
handed them out as Jamie and the other footmen joined him. When Dillian flung
open the front door, he offered a vocal protest, but she ignored him. She
didn’t have patience for arguing over propriety.

The mob had already reached the last curve in the drive. She
could see the torchlight flickering over blackened faces. She couldn’t
recognize anyone in the darkness, let alone with disguises. It didn’t
matter. She fully intended to kill them if they came closer.

She felt Jenkins and the armed servants filing out of the
house behind her. She hoped the maids had run out the back as ordered. She had
enough militant Whitnell in her to see the Grange burned over her dead body,
but wisdom enough to know death was always a possibility.

“What do you want?” she shouted over the howls
of the dogs. The trainer held them back at the corner of the house. She
didn’t want the animals hurt by gunfire. She hoped he kept them there
unless needed.

The mob ignored her. Seeing the armed servants behind her,
they veered in the direction of the stable. The horses! She hadn’t
thought to rescue the horses. Torn between guarding her house and protecting
innocent animals, Dillian hesitated.

Incredibly, into that moment of indecision rode a horrifying
specter of silver and black. Dillian gasped and stepped back as the
specter’s huge horse rode between her and the mob. Even with torches
lighting the night sky, she could only discern the rider’s shape and
mass— and the bright arc of a shining sword.

The mob screamed as the huge beast rode down on them,
scattering them across the lawns, sending them flying down the drive in
retreat. The sword arced and flashed and torches flew into the dew-damp grass,
there to sputter out, abandoned as their owners took to their heels.

“The stable!” Dillian screamed, pointing in the
direction of a few brave souls who sought the flammable straw and hay. Her
staff ran where she pointed, but the cloaked figure on horseback got there
first.

The cloaked figure on horseback.

The marquess.

Dillian almost melted with relief. He hadn’t gone away
and left her alone after all. He still looked after the Grange. She still had a
chance to persuade him to stay or take her with him.

If he didn’t get himself killed first.

She screamed and ran toward the stables as remnants of the
mob surrounded him, threatening horse and rider with their torches. Unable to
aim her weapon with any degree of accuracy, she shot it into the air, drawing
their attention.

The black shadow on the horse didn’t hesitate as he
used the distraction to cut a swath through the mob with his deadly sword.
Cries of pain filled the air, and the men with torches fell back, seeing for
the first time the servants running toward them with weapons.

The man in black used his magnificent beast to cut off those
few still attempting to reach the haystacks. They flung their torches in fear
and ran. Dillian watched in relief as a few of the grooms stomped out the
torches before their fires could catch.

“A most unusual sight,” Jenkins murmured from
beside her, a slight note of puzzlement in his voice. “He appears some
knight of old riding to the rescue.”

Dillian tried to see the dashing cloak and upraised sword
from the servant’s point of view, but she saw only the mocking smile and
the flat black of the marquess’s eyes. She shook her head. “More
like a corsair, Jenkins. Beware he doesn’t claim the sinking ship.”

The mob had deteriorated to a rout, with ragged shadows
darting hither and yon in belated attempts to escape the caped monster bearing
down on them. The sword whistled over their heads, Dillian noted. He could have
decapitated dozens of them, but he only frightened them into running. As
furious and terrified as she was, she wasn’t at all certain that she wouldn’t
have lopped off their heads. But she supposed in the morning she would be
grateful for not finding the lawn dotted with headless bodies.

Behind her, the servants had begun gathering again,
whispering among themselves as they watched with astonishment the sight of the
black specter chasing the mob out of sight. She heard their speculation, the
whisper of ghosts, but sensible minds prevailed.

Jenkins was all for sending a delegation to invite the chap
in. The cook wanted to bake him a cake. The maids simpered in admiration.
Dillian was torn between the desire to strangle the bloody marquess for scaring
her like that and the equal desire to throw herself into his arms and kiss him
all over.

She doubted if she would have the opportunity for either.
The caped crusader had disappeared into the shadows of the trees along the
road. She didn’t think the reclusive marquess would return to play the
conquering hero. With quiet decision, she turned and ushered the household back
inside.

“Jenkins, I’ll need to speak with the dog
trainer and the grooms. And you’d best assign another man to help Jamie.
We have no guarantee that some of them won’t return later,” she
said quietly to the stiff butler, who had rearranged his clothing and now
waited for instructions while the rest of the staff returned to their rooms,
chattering and giggling.

“Yes, Miss Reynolds.” He turned and left her
standing alone in the lamp-lit hallway.

The warm wood paneling, the carpeted floors and polished
fixtures, all exuded an aura of security and welcome, unlike the monstrosity of
Arinmede Manor. Dillian loved this house.

Her mother had recited tales of sliding down the banister as
a child, of snow fights on the front lawn, of games of hide-and-seek beneath
those very tables she could see scattered down the hall, draped in silk and
tapestry. This was the only real home she had ever known, even though she had
only lived here off and on these last five years since she had come to Blanche.
Still, the attachment was strong, even more so for one who had never thought to
have a home of her own. She owed its safety now to the mysterious Marquess of
Effingham.

She gave the dog trainer orders to patrol the grounds,
arranged for the grooms to take turns standing watch over the stable, made
certain everyone had returned safely to their beds. And then she waited.

Dillian didn’t bother undressing. She pulled back the
draperies in her room, lit a lamp in the window, and opened the casement. She
couldn’t make the invitation any plainer.

Propriety had no place in what she felt right now. She owed
the marquess a debt of gratitude and she would repay it, whether he wished it
or not. No doubt he preferred returning to his reclusive existence in that
crumbling pile of dust that was his home, but Dillian didn’t think she could
let him waste away like that.