The Marquess (40 page)

“Then, take Verity with you,” Blanche protested
as Dillian resolutely headed for the stairs. “You cannot go about the
city alone.”

“Balderdash,” Dillian replied succinctly. “My
reputation will scarcely be salvaged by the accompaniment of your country
mouse. Besides, I go as Miss Whitnell. I was raised by those soldiers I go to
see. You are the one with a reputation at risk. Keep Verity close.”

She sailed down the stairs in one of her old round gowns,
every bit the country mouse she called Verity. The footman’s eyes widened
in surprise as he opened the door for her, but Mellon’s servants were
well trained. He made no comment upon the lady of the house going out into the
world as a veritable dowd. Of course, he didn’t realize the true lady of
the house was the maid disguised in scarves above stairs.

Dillian disliked leaving Blanche alone and vulnerable should
Neville return, but she could not bear sitting idle another minute. In her
experience other people never applied themselves to her problems as thoroughly
as she did. And if the villains were actually after her and not Blanche, it was
better that she use herself as decoy to keep them as far away from Blanche as
she could.

She found a hackney waiting on the next corner. Peering up
at the slovenly driver, she asked if the carriage was taken. She didn’t
like the driver’s bleary eyes as he glared down at her, but she had
little choice at this hour. They’d left Blanche’s carriage back at
the village.

When he nodded and took up the reins, she entered the narrow
confines of the interior, cursing the low quality of help these days. Or
perhaps he thought her so lacking in coin as to be not worth the effort of
helping her inside.

When they turned right instead of left at the next street
corner, Dillian thought perhaps she should knock and remind the driver of the
address. But she had not gone to the War Office in years. Perhaps the streets
had changed or the driver knew some better route.

But when he turned right again, she knew they were headed in
a circle, and she pounded the driver’s door with her gloved fist.

He ignored her as they maneuvered around a coach and four
holding up traffic so its occupants could descend with their myriad packages.
Dillian was tempted to open the carriage door and leap out, but she feared
falling beneath the feet of the other horses, or those of the gentlemen riding
behind them. She waited until they passed the obstruction, then pounded again.

The driver pulled into a narrow alley and stopped.

Fuming, Dillian threw open the door and prepared to depart,
hanging onto her reticule without any intention of paying the madman a
shilling. Before she could put one foot on the step, an elegant figure in
beaver hat and tails gently shoved her back inside and climbed in after her.

He beat upon the driver’s door with the head of his
walking stick, and the carriage started up again.

Enraged more than frightened, Dillian turned to let the
intruder have a piece of her mind, until her gaze encountered laughing green
eyes and a familiar, if irritating, grin.

“Well, Miss Whitnell, it seems you are incapable of
even the most basic common sense. I could have been the duke or Dismouth or any
number of ill-wishers. Do you have no sense of self-preservation at all?”

Fury diminishing to cool anger, Dillian opened her reticule
and produced the small pistol her father had designed for her. Aiming it
directly at O’Toole’s black heart, she answered, “More than
you do, it seems, Mister Lawrence. Shall you order the driver to continue my
way, or shall I?”

“Very good!” Michael admired the pretty pistol
in Dillian’s hands. “You and Gavin are two of a kind, after all.
Personally, I have little use for weapons, but I understand their necessity.”

Michael shifted his position, removed his tall hat, and
straightened his coat. An instant later Dillian discovered she held nothing but
thin air.

While she gaped at the place where her pistol should be,
Michael continued as if nothing unusual had occurred. “Of course, Gavin
swears he has given up heroics for investments, but we both know better than
that, don’t we?”

Dillian glared at him. “Speak for yourself. I have
found very little heroic about his attitude.”

Michael lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “Spoken like a
woman scorned. I had thought the interest more on Gavin’s side than
yours. You do not seem one of those soft women who swoon about romantical
fantasies.”

Dillian sat back in her seat and refused to look at him. She
wanted her pistol back, but she wouldn’t let him know that, either. “I
am in no way romantical, and I despise military men, so I can assure you I have
no interest in your brother. I spoke only my honest opinion. The marquess is
too self-centered and arrogant for heroics.”

Michael toyed with his beaver hat for a while before
replying. “You despise military men? I thought you practically raised by
soldiers.”

Dillian clutched her nearly empty reticule. “That is
precisely what I mean. They are not family men. They are fine fighting
companions, but they are not...” She stopped, realizing she would reveal
entirely too much if she continued.

But Michael had no difficulty following the path of her
thoughts. “Of course, they are not the type of men you wish to become
romantical over. You would prefer a man who looks after his home and family
rather than one who goes marching off to war.”

“Exactly.” Said that way, she couldn’t
deny it, although she had no intention of becoming romantical over anyone.

Michael smiled and propped his feet against a ridge in the
opposite wall. “You describe Gavin perfectly. All his life he’s
attempted to put a roof over my head and keep me under it. He doesn’t
realize the failure is mine and not his. Now that he owns his tottering castle,
he invests every moment of his time in holding onto it so we’ll both have
a home to call our own. Given my nature and the state of the castle, I’d
definitely call that heroic.”

“I suppose marrying an heiress to keep his castle is
also heroic?” Dillian asked with a bite of sarcasm.

Michael began whistling as he glanced out the window to
check their location. Satisfied, he returned to the conversation with a smile. “That
was my idea. Not very good at romance, am I?”

“Romance is vastly overrated,” Dillian answered
coldly. “I suppose someone like Blanche can look forward to it. She
deserves someone to love and who loves her in return. Since she can have her
choice of men, she has more opportunities than the general population.”

The smile disappeared from Michael’s eyes. “You’re
quite correct in that instance. But does that mean the rest of us must settle
for practicality instead of love?”

Dillian gave him a sharp look. “What difference does
any of this make? Where are we going?”

Michael leaned lazily against the squabs, crossing his arms
over his chest. “I thought perhaps if we circled the city for a few days,
I might keep you out of trouble until Gavin has time to solve all our little
mysteries. It would give him an opportunity to woo our lady also, but I see now
that isn’t likely. He’ll no doubt come after me with his sword if I
don’t return you promptly.”

Only because he doesn’t like sharing his
possessions,
Dillian thought spitefully, but she had sense enough to hold
her tongue on that one. “I’m certain that would be the heroic thing
to do,” she answered instead.

Michael gave her a look of curiosity. “I suppose I can
understand why you’re fighting what you feel for him. I just didn’t
think you mercenary enough to consider wealth more important than character.”

“O’Toole, will you please just have the carriage
halt and put me down somewhere? Anywhere. I see no reason to continue this nonsensical
conversation.”

He whistled to himself. “That bad, is it? And I wager
Gavin hasn’t got a clue.” He remained silent a moment longer, as if
monitoring some internal debate. Finally coming to some conclusion, he slapped
his hat back on his head and handed back the pistol. “He hasn’t
told you about the scars, has he?”

Dillian accepted the pistol, sliding it into her reticule
without interest as she regarded Michael’s expression. “He has.
What difference does it make?”

Michael whistled in surprise. “I didn’t think he
had it in him.” He turned and studied Dillian a little more closely. “You’re
not his usual sort at all. I haven’t decided if that’s for the
better or worse.”

He sat at an angle so he could observe her better. “I
don’t suppose he told you the full tale? Gavin’s not one to brag
about his exploits.”

“I scarcely think seducing another man’s
betrothed is anything to brag about,” she said tartly.

Michael shook his head. “Now, that’s a lie.
He’s up to his old tactics, scaring you off, he is. You don’t scare
easily though, do you?”

Considering that a fool question, Dillian didn’t
reply.

Michael nodded as if she had. “Good. Gavin’s as
hard-headed as they come. He delights in terrifying innocent misses. Justifies
his laziness in staying locked up. If he didn’t put you off with that
tale, nothing will. He got those scars for more heroics.”

Dillian’s head jerked up from her contemplation of her
gloved fingers. “Heroics? It happened in the war, then?”

Michael shook his head and tut-tutted. “Gavin only joined
the navy because we were living on the coast then, and the British had the
arrogance to think they could blockade us into starvation. Then they took to
firing on civilians, and Gavin took strong objection. Don’t get me wrong,
he enjoyed besting the devils, but his main thought was protecting our home at
the time. He thoroughly disliked the navy, but he did what he thought necessary
to protect what was his.”

That made sense. Not only did the marquess possess a finely
honed instinct for protecting what was his, but he apparently lacked any innate
ability for killing. She remembered Gavin swinging his sword at the men who
would have endangered the Grange. He hadn’t killed them, no more than he
had hurt the highwayman who attacked them or the trespasser he’d caught.

Gavin had the soul of a peacekeeper, not a fighting man. He
wouldn’t go off to war for the glory of it. That knowledge eased her
somehow, but it didn’t change matters any. She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t need to. O’Toole had evidently made
up his mind to spill it all before he thought better of it.

“Gavin was a handsome fellow back then. He had the
ladies standing in line, but once he made his choice, the others ceased to
exist as far as he was concerned. She came from a wealthy family. The parents
didn’t approve, but the lady was determined. She swore she’d wait
for Gavin until he returned from war.”

Dillian didn’t want to hear this. She stared out the
carriage window. They did seem to be circling the city.

“When Gavin returned home, he found his beloved
betrothed to a wealthy older man. He didn’t confront her, didn’t
let her know he’d returned. He merely set about finding out as much about
the man as he could. What he discovered wasn’t very pleasant. He took the
evidence back to the lady’s father, thinking even if the lady no longer
loved him, she should be protected from her own foolishness. Her father had
Gavin thrown from the house.”

Dillian could see it easily. America was no doubt little
different from England. From things Gavin had said, she knew he’d grown
up poor, that his family—despite their claim to aristocracy—were
little better than charlatans living off the labors of others. Families
preferred lineage and wealth to good looks, high hopes, and good intentions.

“Gavin finally sought the lady. Apparently, she
thought him satisfied with her bed without the honor of his name. She
didn’t believe his warnings. He should have left it at that.”

The note of bitterness in Michael’s voice was unusual,
and Dillian cast him a quick glance. His expression revealed little.
Michael’s features generally mirrored his mood.

“But, no,” he continued, “Gavin had to be
heroic. Instead of bedding the lady at her invitation, he sought to protect her
by exposing the truth about her suitor and challenging him to a duel. The man
chose rapiers, a nicety Gavin never learned with our rambling upbringing.
Swords, he understood. Not rapiers. He went out anyway.”

“The man savaged him,” Dillian said quietly.

“Tried to cut his initials into Gavin’s face, to
be exact. Their seconds eventually put a halt to it. That wasn’t enough
for Gavin. Wearing an example of the bas—” He cut himself off and
substituted “bully’s.” Dillian realized then that Michael
never used the curse words so common to others. “. . . of the
bully’s cruelty,” Michael continued. “Gavin insisted on
appearing before his lady friend bearing the bloody scars as proof of the
man’s character. It seemed the wealthy widower she meant to marry had
lost several wives in the past, not necessarily to natural causes.”

Dillian hid a gasp and shudder. She knew the rest of this
story. She could feel Gavin’s anguish when he held his heart in his hands
in a desperate effort to keep the woman he loved from harm, only to have his
heart thrown back at him with hysterical shrieks of horror.

A tear trickled down her cheeks at the thought of a man so
tenderhearted, so courageous, even after all he’d gone through. This
story rung much more true than the one he’d given her. She recognized
that now. His beloved’s shrieks of disgust at his ruined face would have destroyed
what remained of Gavin’s pride.

“You don’t have to tell me the rest,” she
said quietly. “How soon after that did you leave for England?”

“We couldn’t earn the fare immediately on
Gavin’s earnings. We had to wait until some of his investments made
returns. We left town and started wandering again after that little episode. It
wasn’t easy for Gavin making a living with a face like that. He worked on
ships mostly. He could have caught one to England anytime, but he wouldn’t
go without me, and he wanted a little extra so we didn’t arrive
completely penniless. Gavin’s a bit of a fool sometimes.”