The Marquess (39 page)

He let himself out the rear door into the gardens, then into
the mews. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see him parading around Lady
Blanche’s town house anyway. He’d only sought to stay and protect
the women while Michael uncovered the journals.

Now that he’d brought in the Earl of Mellon’s
servants, the intruder would have a difficult time of entering without notice.
He’d find more security to reinforce them after dark. They wouldn’t
need his presence any longer.

He had some inquiries he needed to make, a few introductions
to arrange, some information he needed to ferret out. Michael should return
soon to keep the women out of mischief.

One troubling thought lingered long after Gavin left the
garden gate: Michael deserved better than a woman soiled by his brother.

Lieutenant the Honorable James Reardon sprawled inelegantly
in a rear booth at White’s. At this hour of the day nothing stronger than
coffee sat on the table before him. His companion occasionally rattled his
newspaper as he perused it, but the lieutenant didn’t take the hint. He
sipped at his coffee, kept a close eye on arrivals, and continued his
monologue.

“I mean to find her, Martin. I thought one of you
would look after her. I can’t believe you lazy louts went about your own
business and let her disappear like that. I should never have stayed in Vienna
so long. Damn it all, if it hadn’t been for that bloody cannonball
…”

“The bloody cannonball could have killed you, but it
didn’t. It could have crippled you, but it didn’t. All it did was
give you an excuse for lingering with a certain well-endowed countess in Vienna
until you perfected your waltz. Don’t give me that faradiddle, Reardon.
If you’d had any concern for the girl, you would have written.”

Reardon glared at the slightly balding man in the booth
across from him. “You’re a fine one to speak, Martin. You came back
to a comfortable position, a few thousand pounds of your own a year, and a wife
with a family to keep you well to grass in the future. You don’t have to
scrape on what little can be squeezed from a lieutenancy. Why didn’t you
see how she fared?”

Martin sipped at his coffee and glared over his spectacles
at his friend. “I did. She was nowhere to be found. Hawley and the major
joined up again when Napoleon came out of Elba rattling his sabers. Timmons and
Shelby were in the Americas catching cholera in the swamps while the navy
burned Washington. Who was there to ask? If I could have found Whitnell’s
papers, I might have found a letter or two to locate her, but you’d
already ordered them shipped, and you weren’t to be found. They found
nothing on his body. I did all I could under the circumstances. I saw him
decently buried. He didn’t have relatives to speak of that I knew besides
his daughter. Damned if I know what else I could have done.”

“Timmons and Shelby and the lot shouldn’t be
difficult to find now. Have you asked them? Timmons showed her how to ride a
pony. She’s always had a fondness for him.”

Martin set the newspaper aside with an exasperated glare. “She
don’t know his relations. How would she reach him? You’re all about
in your head, Reardon. I don’t know what you’re talking about. For
all the chit doted on you, you never gave her a second look. She’s no
more feathers to fly on than you have.”

Reardon growled something irascible, drained his cup, and
kept his attention focused on the door. “I made sure no one else touched
those papers. Her father meant her to have them. I just hope she received them,
and they’re not sitting around the War Office somewhere. Whitnell raked
his share of coals in hell, but that daughter of his meant a lot to him. He
meant to take care of her.”

“He had a damned rotten way of showing it, is all I
say,” Martin muttered, returning to his newspaper.

A tall, lean figure elegantly garbed for this hour of the
day detached himself from the table behind Reardon, rising to stand over their
booth much as Gabriel must stand before the golden gates. Reardon glanced up in
surprise, taking in the rapier-destroyed cheek before sitting a little more
upright in the presence of ferocious dark eyes.

“You speak of Colonel Whitnell, I assume?” the
stranger inquired with exaggerated politeness and an American drawl.

“Can’t see that it’s much of your
business, old chap,” Reardon replied arrogantly. “Eavesdropping can
get a fellow thrown out of here.”

“Vilifying a lady’s family and speaking ill of
the dead ought also, but I’ve noticed British rules are a little more lax
than ours,” the stranger responded with equal arrogance.

“See here, you interfering bastard, I ain’t said
anything against the lady...”

“Shut up, Reardon,” Martin said pleasantly. “You
were flapping your gob in a dozen different directions, as usual.”
Turning to the stranger, he inquired, “The Marquess of Effingham, I
presume?”

Gavin nodded curtly. “I wish to learn more of
Whitnell. You served with him?”

Another gentleman wandered up in time to hear this question.
Pounding Gavin on the back, he shook his head in mock dismay. “Don’t
go asking these fellows about Whitnell. They worship the ground he walked on.
If you want the real truth about the bastard, let me tell you a tale or two.”

Reardon shoved from his seat and glared at the newcomer. “Get
your royal ass out of here, Dunwiddy. You don’t know a thing about the
colonel. All you remember is the time he threw your scrawny little rear over
the wall for tattling to the dean. You aren’t worth the spit to polish
his boots.”

“The only thing I tattled to the dean was the method
the lot of you used to cheat on the exam. Whitnell’s main asset was his
ability to slip through every damn crack in the rules. He was a bounder then,
and he was a thorough-going rotter when he died!”

Gavin eased away from the altercation as several more
gentlemen added their opinions of Colonel Whitnell’s character. The
boundary line in the fracas became immediately clear: his men would stand
behind him with their dying breath; all others maligned his character beyond repair.

As he turned away, he noticed the Earl of Dismouth sitting
in one corner watching the debate with interest. He caught Gavin’s eye
and reluctantly, Gavin strolled over. He didn’t like the man’s
looks. Dismouth represented the epitome of everything about the British class
system that Gavin despised. Undoubtedly brought up in the best families, in the
best schools, trained to civil service for the good of his country, he had the
arrogance of his station with very little understanding of the people he meant
to govern. Idly, Gavin wondered if he’d even walked through the town his
title represented.

“Started a bit of ruckus over there, didn’t you?”
Dismouth made a lazy gesture toward the chair across from him. “Believe
we met last night, didn’t we? Effingham, isn’t it?”

“Dismouth.” Gavin nodded curtly, taking the seat
offered, not answering any of the obviously rhetorical questions.

“What interest can an American have in Colonel
Whitnell?” the earl asked idly, sipping at his morning libation as he set
aside his newspaper. “As far as I’m aware, the scoundrel’s
bad habits never extended to that particular continent.”

Gavin signaled a waiter, taking his time before replying. He
had learned many things in his lifetime. One of them was to hold his tongue
until he’d thoroughly considered his reply. When another cup of coffee
appeared before him, he returned his attention to the earl.

“I have heard rumors,” he answered casually. “A
man in my position takes an interest in his surroundings. It’s beneficial
for survival where I come from.”

The earl scowled and signaled to have his cup refilled. “Learning
about a man dead these three years or more isn’t likely to benefit
anyone, unless your interest is in the daughter. She’s penniless, you
realize.”

Gavin shrugged and sat back in his chair. “To my
knowledge, I’ve not made the lady’s acquaintance, but thank you for
warning me. An heiress is more to my taste.”

Interest finally warmed the earl’s cold eyes. “An
heiress? You wouldn’t happen to have a particular one in mind?”

“I’ve not been about in society long enough to
sort them out. As I said, I’m just feeling my way about. Curiosity is one
of my besetting sins. I keep hearing the name Whitnell whispered about. For a
man dead three years or more, it seemed odd.” He nodded in the direction
of the still vociferous argument across the room. “He still engenders
strong opinions.”

Gavin watched as the earl’s expression grew serious,
apparently over some inner debate. When the man spoke again, he listened as
carefully to what wasn’t being said as to what was.

“Wellington nearly lost Waterloo,” the earl
answered in a low voice meant to indicate secrecy. “You really should
take up your place in Parliament, Effingham. We need fresh blood to keep us
awake. You Americans have different ways of looking at things that might
stimulate some refreshing debate. We keep much of national policy to ourselves,
sometimes to our detriment. Did the country know how close we came to being
part of Napoleon’s dominions, the uproar would be enormous.”

Fustian
, Gavin muttered to himself. This man no more
cared about public opinion than he wanted to give a vote to women, Catholics,
or non-landowners. “You have sufficient uproar on your hands as it is,”
he said idly. “I shouldn’t think you would want to stir more debate
over Wellington’s incompetency at this date. They’d likely stone
you.”

“Precisely what we wish to avoid, but if the real
truth about Whitnell got about, we’d have no end to it. The churls are up
in arms as it is. If they should hear their great national hero would have lost
the war through the influence of a man like Whitnell, who should never have
served in his majesty’s finest troops—well, I shouldn’t wish
to be around when that happens.

“The last time a mob in London became angry,” he
continued, “they nearly destroyed several streets and everyone on them.
An old lady riding in her carriage died in the riot, and the merchants they
stripped went bankrupt. And that was just over the hanging of a wretched thief
who once served in the navy. I shudder to imagine what would happen if
Wellington’s victory is desecrated by idle tongues. I wish I could lay my
hands on the scoundrel who started these rumors about Whitnell’s
journals.”

“You are saying his journals expose Wellington as an
incompetent officer?”

Dismouth shrugged. “I am not saying anything except
that Whitnell worked closely with the general and was in possession of almost
as much power as his superior officer. I believe you have heard of
Whitnell’s reputation. Is that the kind of man who could successfully
lead troops into battle?”

Gavin had seen enough of war to know that was precisely the
kind of man to lead men into battle. Dismouth’s story had enough holes to
shoot a squirrel through, but in his experience, government officials never
told the whole truth when a half would suffice. In any case the tale held no
interest to him, other than the mention of the journals.

“Why doesn’t someone just burn Whitnell’s
journals?” Gavin asked without interest.

“Interesting you should ask that.” The earl sat
back in his chair. “Whitnell’s daughter worked as a companion to a
lady whose house burned to the ground one night.”

“The daughter had the journals?”

“We don’t know. She may have read them and
stored them for safekeeping.”

Gavin rose from his seat as if bored with the whole thing. “Then,
perhaps you ought to join forces with Lieutenant Reardon over there. He seems
to think finding the daughter is of some importance. But penniless companions
are of little interest to me.”

“Then, I wouldn’t continue seeing Miss Reynolds
if I were you,” the earl answered snidely, returning to his newspaper. “That
is the alias Miss Whitnell currently uses.”

Gavin contemplated grabbing the man’s cravat and
pounding his smug face against the nearest wall. On second thought, he wandered
into the outer room and waited for Lieutenant Reardon to extricate himself from
the shouting rabble. Now that he wore the disguise of British nobleman and
haunted their vaunted halls, he may as well put his new persona to use.

* * * *

Dillian adjusted her dull brown bonnet to cover the last
recalcitrant curl, and refused to look at her reflection in the hall mirror.
She knew she looked like a brown sparrow. She didn’t need the mirror
reminding her.

“I wish you wouldn’t go, Dillian,” Blanche
said worriedly. “I would rather you waited for Michael or the marquess.
They may have found out something you should know first.”

“What could they possibly find out?” Dillian
asked scornfully. “That Winfrey won’t release books that belong to
me? I already know that. That Neville is too determined to have his own way to
help us? Unless the marquess has untold sums hidden away somewhere with which
to hire barristers to sue your solicitor, I cannot fathom what they can do.”

“Appealing to your father’s men will accomplish
little more,” Blanche pleaded. “You know few have funds enough for
themselves. What can they do?”

“I don’t expect them to supply funds. I only
wish to see if they know anything of the contents of the journals. I still
cannot believe there is anything of value to anyone in them after all these
years. It should be perfectly harmless going down to the War Office and asking
for the direction of my father’s friends.”

“If you are the one those men meant to kidnap, then I
see nothing harmless about your walking the streets alone!” Blanche
glared at her cousin. “At least wait until Michael returns so he can go
with you.”

“You set far too great a store in a man who disappears
without a word for days at a time. I do not have such confidence in him.”