The Marquess (44 page)

“Where is Dillian, my lord? It is most urgent that we
speak with her.”

“She didn’t come back here?” Gavin
shouted, dropping Michael instantly and running for the stairs. “Are you
certain she didn’t come back to hare off on her own? I counted on you
holding her until I arrived.”

He practically flew up the stairs, long cloak flying behind
him. Michael and Blanche took the stairs right behind him.

By the time they reached Dillian’s room, Gavin had
already stalked through it. Except that the maids had made the bed, it looked
little different than the night before. The trunk still waited, partially
packed, for its owner’s return.

Gavin groaned and drove his hand through his hair as he
stared bleakly at his brother. “Where is she?”

Looking thoughtful, Michael tapped his pen’s quill to
his lips. “Several possibilities arise….”

He glanced around at expectant faces, shrugged, and led the
way back to the corridor. “I suppose a council of war is called for.
Could we at least have tea before I famish?”

* * * *

Dillian glared at the locked coach door as the coach ambled
through the last remaining hours of daylight. She hadn’t much liked
thinking herself such an incompetent ninnyhammer that any pusillanimous henwit
could come along and shove her inside a coach and abduct her. She didn’t
like thinking it, but it seemed to have happened.

If the brigands didn’t stop for food soon, she thought
she might starve to death. However, she would have a thing or two to say to the
men who dared treat her this way, before starving.

She had tried pounding at the windows and yelling while they
passed through busy London streets, but the clatter of wagon wheels, the shouts
of street hawkers, and the noise of her own coach and driver drowned out any
feeble effort she made.

Now they traveled along country roads, and she saw no one.
If they would just slow down long enough to pass a farm wagon or something, she
might break open the window to attract someone’s attention, but they
passed no one at this time of evening. All the farmers had sensibly returned
home to their nice, warm dinners.

Grinding her teeth in frustration, Dillian clasped her fists
firmly around her frothy reticule. She felt a fool in all this filmy lavender
and lace, but she not only had her reticule, she’d hung on to her
parasol. Her father’s men had taught her to use whatever weapons came to
hand. She need only wait until her enemy appeared.

As dusk drew on, they reached a village with a coaching inn,
and her eyes lit with anticipation. Some of the joy died out of them a few
minutes later when the driver jumped down and entered the inn alone. She
scanned the empty yard looking for any sign of aid, finding none other than the
saddled horse at the trough. If only she could reach the horse—

The driver reappeared carrying a bowl and a mug.
Triumphantly, Dillian watched him crossing the darkening yard in her direction.
Men were such fools, she thought pityingly. Just because she wore ruffles and
lace, this poor idiot thought her so helpless that he dared approach her with
his hands full.

Pulling the pistol from her reticule and holding her parasol
aloft, she prepared to put an end to that spectacularly silly notion.

* * * *

“You haven’t slept all night,” Blanche
protested as she watched the marquess don a fresh cravat borrowed from
Michael’s wardrobe. “You cannot go out there like that. You
haven’t even shaved,” she added daringly.

“You could add his eyes are bloodshot, he looks gray
as death, and a bit of a shade hung over,” Michael added helpfully as he
handed his splendid glossy hat to the marquess standing in front of the hall
mirror.

“Thanks to you,” Gavin growled. “You kept
handing me that damned flask. She’s not anywhere you expected, damn it!
What do you think I ought to do? Go to bed and sleep on it?”

No one dared mention the obvious fact that Dillian had no
actual connection to the marquess to demand that he do anything at all. Gavin
owed her nothing. For all anyone knew, she’d gone tearing off on her own.

They’d already sent messengers riding off to Hampshire
and Hertfordshire, just in case. Effingham had done more than any one man could
be expected to do for a female of small acquaintance.

“You can’t appear in the House of Lords like
that, sir,” Blanche said firmly. “You look like the Grim Reaper.
They will run screaming in terror.”

He smiled even more malevolently. Gavin adjusted the hat on
his head and drew his cloak around his rumpled coat.

“Be glad I do not wear the hood, my lady,” he
informed her. Before they could throw any more obstacles in his way, Gavin
grasped his walking stick, picked up the heavy satchel, and strode out, cloak
billowing around him.

Michael sighed and grimaced. “I believe Gavin has just
donned his hero hat, my lady. There is no reasoning with him once he does that.
We can only hope to divert disaster. I will leave you with Cousin Marian while
I find a safe depository for those papers. Get some sleep while you can. One of
us will need it.”

He didn’t wait for her protests but strode off to the
library in a manner very similar to the man who had just left.

* * * *

No one actually ran screaming from the stately halls of
Parliament as the American Marquess of Effingham marched through them. A few
observers may have looked for the army he appeared to lead, or at least
anticipated drums and fifes. Others stepped out of his way, their eyes widening
in horror at Effingham’s grim face and burning dark eyes. A low hum of
interest grew to a noticeable murmur of alarm.

Uncaring, Gavin strode through enemy territory with only one
thought in mind—Dillian. If any of these effete dilettantes had harmed
her, he would see them crucified.

No man could touch what was his and live to speak of it.
Rage carried him through these alien halls of elegant, whispering aristocrats.

He saw their haughty heads bend together and murmur in tones
as he passed. He grimaced at a guard who hurried to keep him out. Producing his
card with the same flourish as a sword, Gavin shoved past the man and strode
on.

Neville rushed toward him from the far end of the hall, but
Gavin ignored his gesticulations. Michael had searched the duke’s
premises last night and found no trace of Dillian. The duke could suffer the
torments of the damned along with everyone else. Gavin gave no preferential
treatment.

He’d already sent word ahead. They expected him. They
didn’t know what to expect, he fully realized. He didn’t care about
that, either. He’d never had any notion of using his blasted title to
stride into the most powerful house in England, walk in front of hundreds of
the most respected, wealthiest, powerful men in the world, and fling their
damned futures in their faces. But he would. For Dillian.

Gavin strode past formally wigged men in dark robes holding
out their hands in greeting. He’d disdained making a spectacle of himself
in the past, protected the innocent from his fearsome visage, but he protected
no one now but Dillian. The American navy captain he once had been had arrived
in his enemies’ hallowed halls.

Arriving at last at the podium facing a chamber filling with
robed aristocrats, Gavin slammed his satchel down in front of all the
expectant, horrified faces, and threw off his hat so they could see him
clearly.

“I will trade all your dirty secrets, gentlemen,”
he announced in a voice that rang through the halls outside, “for the
return of Miss Reynolds Whitnell. I don’t give a good damn which of you
sold out your country for the devil’s coin. I want Colonel
Whitnell’s daughter returned—whole and unharmed—within the
next twelve hours, or I shall have these journals published in every bloody
newspaper in the land!”

He dumped the satchel’s contents on the table before
him, spilling out a dozen black-bound books.

The pistol blast spun her abductor backward when the parasol
didn’t quite accomplish the task. Dillian regretted the necessity of
leaving the villain sprawled in the dust of the coach yard instead of
questioning him, but she had no intention of allowing any of the rather large
men rushing from the inn a chance to catch her. Fleeing for the saddled horse,
she climbed the trough, ripped her lovely skirt, and threw her leg over the
saddle. Shouts of pure amazement followed her out of the yard.

She had watched the road signs this time. She knew precisely
where she was. She thought it kind of her abductor to go in a familiar
direction. Kind, or the mark of treachery.

She wouldn’t think about that. She couldn’t
believe Effingham would abduct her, not even for her own good. It had to be
coincidence that the coach had taken the road toward Hertfordshire and Arinmede
Manor.

* * * *

Gavin appropriated an office in the very center of
Parliament’s hallowed halls, in a room in full view of soldiers, guards,
and any respected member who lingered outside the chambers. The satchel sat in
the center of the desk, quite close to the place where he contemptuously rested
his feet.

The first person who dared brave his scowl was a slight man
of indeterminate age, bespectacled, and far from forbidding. He barely raised
his balding head above the height of Gavin’s shoes.

“I’ve come to say …That is, I regret what
has happened to the lady... I had no idea. You see, it’s all my fault,
I’m sure. I just did what I thought best, as my father taught me. Now,
I’m not so sure It’s just that—”

Gavin impatiently slammed his feet to the floor and leaning
over the desk, glared at his stuttering visitor. “Do I know you?”

The visitor gulped. “I apologize, my lord. I’ve
been so distraught since the fire. I cannot keep my wits about me. I’m
Winfrey, sir. Archibald Winfrey, Lady Blanche’s solicitor.”

“Do you know where I can find Miss Whitnell?”
Gavin demanded.

“No, no. Not at all, my lord,” the solicitor
continued stuttering, worrying his hat brim between his hands. “That is
just it, my lord. The lady cannot have her father’s papers. I beg pardon
for saying this, my lord, but neither can you. I had the papers all safe in my
office, sir. I never meant to keep the lady from her fortune, if that’s
what they are. I simply protected them at the duke’s behest. The lady
asked for them, I know, but I did not realize—”

“You did not realize what you held?” Gavin asked
menacingly. “For surely you realized you wrongfully kept the lady from
what was hers.”

“But, my lord …” the solicitor stuttered,
backing away slightly from his fury. “The duke … Her cousin …
You see, I thought to help—”

Gavin slammed open the satchel and waved a black book from
its interior in the solicitor’s face. “Is this what you came to
see, Winfrey? Would you care to look inside and verify its genuineness?”

Winfrey’s eyes widened. “How did you …?
It’s not possible. They all burned.” He twisted his cravat as Gavin
flung book after book onto the desk in front of him. “They’re not
even singed,” he whispered in astonishment.

“Magic.” Gavin smiled grimly. “One wave of
my wand, and they’re miraculously restored. If I must sit here much
longer, I may resort to reading them. Perhaps you would care to tell a few of
your clients that, Mr. Winfrey?”

The man backed out, still stuttering. Gavin nodded at a man stationed
directly outside, and a shadow followed the solicitor.

This was going to be a damned long day, Gavin decided,
returning his feet to the desk. He preferred action to sitting here like a duck
ripe for the plucking.

If he had to sit here much longer, he might just pull out
his sword and go after the Duke of Anglesey personally. He wasn’t a
particularly patient man, and the idea of Dillian in anyone else’s hands
made him helpless with fury. He meant to destroy
something
before the
day ended. It might as well be a duke.

* * * *

A few hours later, Michael and Reardon appeared at the door
of the chamber Gavin had appropriated.

During that time, Gavin had entertained viscounts and dukes,
the prime minister, and an assortment of other characters satisfying their
curiosities or looking for his support in one cause or another.

He wasn’t in much humor to entertain his throwback of
a brother and a man who’d left a lady penniless for the better part of
two years. He glared at both. Neither man showed a flicker of fear. They merely
closed the door behind them.

“Montague has spirited Lady Blanche to safety,”
Michael informed him the instant the door closed. “He feared Marian would
have the child early if he didn’t do something drastic.”

“Lady Blanche isn’t in any damned danger.
Dillian is,” Gavin growled, prowling the floor. “I can’t bear
sitting here any longer. I’ll leave the blamed books with you. There has to
be some trace of her somewhere, and I mean to find it.”

Reardon stepped in front of him, blocking him into a corner.
“Forgive me, my lord, but I have to ask your intentions when you find
her. Your public display has made your partiality quite blatant. I will not
have the lady’s reputation damaged further by allowing you to go haring
off after her.”

Gavin’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He ignored
Michael’s warning gesture. He saw only a spoiled English soldier standing
in his way. With murder already raging through his veins, he didn’t have
patience for politeness. He wrapped both fists in Reardon’s gold-buttoned
coat and lifted the heavier man clear of the floor.

“If you have any idea whatsoever,” he spoke
slowly and distinctly, so there could be no mistake, “any idea
at all
where Miss Whitnell can be found, you had best spit it out now or you’ll
fly through that window within the next ten seconds.”

Since the window in question was several floors above street
level and the marquess commenced to counting the seconds, Reardon squirmed
uneasily in his grip.