There's Something About Lady Mary (4 page)

With practiced ease, he guided her slowly about the terrace, picking up speed so gradually that Mary never even noticed how fast they were going. She loosened up, forgot herself, and, throwing her head back with careless abandon, laughed with joy as they twirled about to the strains of music that drifted through an open window. It faded much sooner than she would have hoped, forcing their pace to slow until they were once more quite still.

“Thank you,” Mr. Summersby told her, offering her a slight bow.

Mary smiled broadly. “I do believe that it is I who should thank you,” she replied in a breathless voice as she gazed up at him with her big brown eyes. “You have been quite the gentleman, for which I am truly grateful.”

Mr. Summersby paused for a moment before releasing her. He looked as though he was pondering something. “It occurs to me that you know my name, but I have no idea of yours. Would you perhaps be so kind as to tell me whose company I have had the pleasure of enjoying this evening?”

Mary stepped back. Had she really forgotten to introduce herself? Was it possible that Mr. Summersby really didn’t know who she was? She suddenly dreaded having to tell him. She’d enjoyed spending time with him, had even considered the possibility of seeing him again, but once he knew her true identity, he’d probably treat her no differently than all the other gentlemen had done: like a grand pile of treasure with which to pay off his debts and house his mistresses. And who could blame him? He’d already admitted that he was a second son and thus unlikely to be able to rely on an inheritance to sustain the high standards of living he’d undoubtedly acquired as a member of the upper class. Nevertheless, in spite of her own misgivings, he’d been nothing but pleasant toward her, and because of that, she honestly felt that she owed him the truth.

Squaring her shoulders and straightening her spine, she mustered all her courage and turned a serious gaze upon him. “My name is Mary Croyden, and I am the Marchioness of Steepleton.” Ryan’s response was instantaneous. His mouth dropped open, allowing for a clear view of the back of his throat, while his eyes widened in complete and utter disbelief. He stared at the slender woman who stood before him, doing her best to play the part of a peeress. Was it really possible that she was the very marchioness he’d been looking for when he’d stepped outside for some fresh air only a half hour earlier? The very same one that Percy had asked him to protect? She seemed much too young for such a title, too unpolished and far too simple. It wasn’t that he found her unattractive in any way, though he had thought her plain at first glance. No, she merely didn’t have that air of prestige about her that all the typical duchesses, marchionesses, and countesses oozed from their very pores.

“What?” she asked with a large degree of annoyance as she crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow. “Not what you expected the infamous Marchioness of Steepleton to look like?”

“Not exactly, no,” he admitted. “You are just not—”

“Not what? Not pretty enough? Not sophisticated enough? Or is it perhaps the way in which I speak that fails to equate with your ill-conceived notion of what a marchioness ought to sound like?” He had no chance to reply before she said, “Well, you do not exactly strike me as a stereotypical medical student either.”

“And just what exactly would you know about that?” he asked, a little put out by her sudden verbal attack.

“Enough,” she remarked in a rather clipped tone. “My father was a skilled physician. I know the sort of man it takes to fill such a position, and you, sir, do not fit the bill.”

For the first time in his life, Ryan Summersby found himself at a complete loss for words. Not only could he not comprehend that this slip of a woman before him, appearing to be barely out of the schoolroom, was a peeress in her own right, not to mention a woman of extreme wealth. But that she was actually standing there fearlessly scolding him with such vigor. . .He knew that a sane person would be offended, yet he couldn’t help but be enthralled.

In addition, he’d managed to glimpse a side of her that he very much doubted few people had ever seen. “You do not think too highly of yourself, do you?” he suddenly asked.

That brought her up short. “I have no idea what you could possibly mean by that,” she told him defensively.

“Well, you assume that I do not believe you to be who you say you are. Next, you think the reasoning behind my not believing you might have something to do with the way you look. Finally, you feel the need to assert yourself by finding fault with me, for which I must commend you, since I do not have very many faults at all.”

“You arrogant. . .” The marchioness wisely clamped her mouth shut before uttering something that she would be bound to regret. Instead, she turned away and walked toward the French doors that led toward the ballroom. “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Summersby. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening,” she called over her shoulder in an obvious attempt at sounding dignified.

“May I call on you sometime?” he asked, ignoring her abrupt dismissal of him as he thought of the task that Percy had given him. It really wouldn’t do for him to muck things up so early in the game. Besides, he wasn’t sure he’d ever met a woman who interested him more than Lady Steepleton did at that very moment. He had to admit that the woman had character.

She paused in the middle of her exit, turned slightly, and looked him dead in the eye. “You most certainly may not, Mr. Summersby.” And before Ryan had a chance to dispute the matter, she had vanished back inside, the white cotton of her gown twirling about her feet.

“A
letter arrived for you no more than a half hour ago, my lady,” Mary’s butler, Thornton, told her as she handed him her cloak.

Mary spotted the white envelope immediately. It was lying on the silver tray that Thornton always used when delivering the mail. She picked it up and turned it over in her hand. It was completely blank, save for a burgundy wax seal with a smudged insignia stamped into it. Mary frowned as she tore open the envelope, removed the letter, and silently read:

It has been brought to my attention that you have returned. As it happens, I am in desperate need of your immediate assistance. Please come to the following address as soon as you can.

Yours,

H

Mary stared down at the piece of paper, mesmerized by its contents. She suddenly snapped to attention. “There is not a single moment to lose, Thornton. Have my horse brought around immediately,” she said tersely as she started toward the stairs.

Thornton didn’t move. “You are going out again, my lady? At this late hour?” He wore an unmistakable look of disapproval. “Do you think that is wise?”

Mary scowled at him. “Please do not question me, Thornton. I am in a great hurry.”

“Very well, my lady.” Thornton gave a short bow before setting about his task.

“Oh, and Thornton?” Mary called after him.

“Yes, my lady?”

“I shall be riding astride.”

The poor butler looked as if she might as well have slapped him. For a moment it seemed as if he would say something, but he just nodded sheepishly and replied, “Very well, my lady.”

Confident of Thornton’s dependability, Mary practically flew up the stairs to her bedroom, where she found Emma asleep in a chair. She regretted having to wake her, but she knew she’d never manage to get out of her gown on her own.

“Emma,” she said softly as she walked across to the large trunk that stood propped against the wall. Emma snorted slightly in her sleep, turning her head as her mouth opened on a long sigh.

Mary lifted the heavy lid of the trunk. “Emma!” she said again, this time louder. Emma groaned in apparent annoyance as she shifted her whole body in the chair, snuggling back against the headrest.

Oh, for heaven’s sake
.

“Wake up Emma!” Mary finally exclaimed in a louder voice than she’d intended.

Emma’s eyes sprang open. The befuddled maid jumped to her feet as if someone had just jabbed her with a fireplace poker. “I am so sorry, my lady,” she managed to say. “I must have dozed off.”

“It is quite all right. In truth, I did not expect to return so early. However, I do need your help right away. Would you please unbutton my dress for me?”

“Certainly, my lady.” Moving to stand behind her mistress, Emma went to work on the tiny buttons immediately. “Did you have a pleasant evening?”

“I will tell you all about it later, Emma, but right now I am running terribly late.”

“You are going out again?” She sounded only a tad bit less appalled than Thornton.

“Yes,” Mary replied without elaborating on why or where she might be off to. “Emma?” she then asked in a very serious tone. “Have you ever tied a cravat before?”

Emma paused for a moment as if wondering whether or not this might be a test of some sort. “Only once or twice when my brother asked me to,” she replied, opting for an honest response as she pushed the last button through the tight buttonhole. “There,” she said. “All done.”

“Good.” Mary stepped quickly out of her dress and hurried back over to the trunk. She began pulling out a variety of clothes, all of them in somber tones of brown and gray. Removing her petticoat and chemise, she stepped deftly into a pair of tight breeches while Emma looked on in horror, her face growing paler by the second.

“My lady. . .this really is not very. . .ahem. . .appropriate. You cannot possibly mean to leave the house dressed like. . .like that,” Emma stammered.

“That is precisely what I mean to do. Now, hand me that shirt over there.” She pointed to a rumpled piece of white fabric that lay bunched together on the floor. With just enough hesitation to mark her disapproval, Emma did as she was told.

“I suppose I ought to ready myself as well,” Emma said as she handed Mary the shirt.

“No need, Emma; I’m going alone.”

“But. . .but. . .but. . .” Emma looked clearly perplexed. “You can’t!”

“I can and I will.” Mary gave Emma a hard stare. “More importantly, I must.”

“Consider your reputation, my lady, and your safety. Whatever this urgent matter might be, I would never forgive myself if anything were to happen to you.”

Mary couldn’t help but smile at Emma’s loyalty. “I appreciate your concern, but this is something that I must do alone.” The hapless maid looked ready to protest yet again. “Please trust me, Emma. You can lecture me as much as you like when I return.”

“You may count on it, my lady,” Emma responded, her eyes filled with worry. But she must have understood that time was of the essence, because she didn’t dally any further. Instead, she quickly sprang to assistance, helping her mistress prepare for this mad endeavor.

Rummaging through the trunk for Mary’s boots, Emma retrieved them just as Mary finished buttoning up her shirt. Having squeezed her mistress into the tight pair of brown Hessians, Emma made short work of tying the most solemn cravat that Mary had ever seen. “Good Lord, Emma! Is your brother perhaps a cleric?”

“Yes,” Emma replied, sounding somewhat surprised by the question. “He is a rector. How did you know?”

“Just a hunch,” Mary said and grinned. She patted Emma affectionately on the arm and looked about the room with a searching eye. “Now, where on earth is my hat?”

“Right here,” Emma told her, handing her a conical riding hat that had once belonged to Mary’s father. She eyed it skeptically. “Not exactly de rigueur, is it?”

“It does not have to be,” Mary replied. “It just has to hide my hair, that is all.”

Five minutes later, she was running down the front steps of her house, grabbing the reins of a gray-speckled mare from a startled groom, and climbing nimbly into the saddle with the confidence of someone who was not a stranger to riding. She kicked her heels against the horse’s flanks, spurring him toward Bedford Square.

R
yan watched from beyond the shadows, uncertain of whether to follow the young man who’d just ridden off or remain behind and watch the house instead. What on earth was Lady Steepleton up to?

The soft rustling of fabric being teased by the breeze, accompanied by the precise click of approaching footsteps, caught his attention. He turned to find a cloaked figure, dressed entirely in black from head to toe, striding toward him with long, even steps. A hood was pulled down over his head, and over his mouth and nose he wore a black scarf, concealing his most prominent features entirely from view.

“What do you want?” Ryan asked in a confident tone, his fingers curling firmly around the smooth metal of the pistol he held concealed in his pocket.

The stranger chuckled ever so slightly at the question, but it was enough to send a chill down Ryan’s spine. “That very much depends on what your little friend wants.”

“Explain yourself, sir,” Ryan demanded, his voice conveying the tone of a man who was not to be trifled with.

There was another eerie chuckle. “Am I to understand that you, Mr. Summersby, the very man who has been sent to protect the marchioness, has no idea of why she might be in trouble?”

“I do not suppose that you are about to enlighten me,” Ryan said. He tightened his grip on his pistol while his eyes bored into the stranger’s with enough vehemence to make Lucifer shudder.

But the stranger seemed not to notice. “I would not dream of spoiling the fun for you,” he replied. There was a slight pause. “But know this: if she starts looking for answers to questions that do not concern her or investigating matters that ought to be left untouched, then there
are
those who will seek to silence her.”

Ryan could scarcely believe he was having this conversation. Mary, the plain, simple woman he’d met only a couple of hours earlier, had just been threatened on her life. “Are you one of them?” Ryan asked, contemplating whether or not he should just kill the man and be done with it.

“I am merely the Messenger,” the man said as he bowed before Ryan in an exaggerated show of reverence, twirling his arm as he did so, his head almost reaching as low as his knees before he straightened himself again. Offering another slight chuckle, he then turned on his heel and strode away, calling over his shoulder, “Keep a watchful eye on her, Summersby, and all will be well.”