What the Marquess Sees (8 page)

One might have heard a pin drop, the silence was deafening. They all turned as one toward her. “For me?” The blood drained from her face; in fact, alarm graced the visage of every person in the room, the butler included.

How could anyone know she was here? The question was on all of their minds.

Stonebridge walked over and handed her the note, then stood back to give her room. For a minute, she stared at the parchment as if it would suddenly burst into flame and scorch her near-to-trembling fingers. She shook off such fanciful thoughts and opened it to the curious eyes of everyone in the room.

Lady Beatryce,

I know you are here.

I know why you are here.

I’m coming for you, sweet.

Tick. Tock.

-Your Cloaked Friend

PS. Tell Dansbury, I know his secrets.

Beatryce couldn’t say a word; her tongue was thick in her mouth. Any words she might have uttered died in her throat. She stood on unsteady legs and handed the note to Stonebridge who read it out loud whilst her thoughts raced in out of control panic.

How does he know I am here? What am I to do? That was him looking at me in the window, after all…La, what am I to do?

She automatically looked to Dansbury.

“Cliff? What is he talking about? What secrets?” asked Stonebridge. The question piqued her curiosity, pulling her to the edge, but not out, of her anxious worry.

“The hell if I know.” La, she doubted that. Dansbury mingled with the dregs of society as an agent for the Crown and rubbed elbows with the top echelons of society through his title; between the two, he was bound to have secrets.

“Did you tell anyone? Were you followed?”

“No and no. I’m no green lad.”

“I know, friend; I had to ask.” Stonebridge turned to her, “Lady Beatryce have you left the house? Gone outside at all? Written to anyone?”

“No.” She swallowed. “But this morning, I was looking out the window, and I thought I saw that madman in the street. But then a flood of carriages and pedestrians crowded the road and pavement, momentarily blocking my view, and when they parted again, he was gone. I thought I must have been mistaken.” She was pleased her voice didn’t waver. She had managed to convince herself that he hadn’t really been there, watching her from the street.

“Evidently not.”

“No.” So she had been wrong.

“Well, this moves up our timetable and makes your departure more urgent.” Stonebridge said this to Dansbury.

“Indeed, it does. We leave now.” He replied as he stood and exited the room. “Let’s go.”

Presumably that last part was directed at her. She followed in his wake. She had nothing to pack.

“A gentleman is one who never hurts anyone’s feelings unintentionally.”

― Oscar Wilde

A Less Travelled Road Out of London…

June 1814…

Dansbury eyed his traveling companion with more than a little distaste. He could just make out her silhouette in the dim light emanating from their carriage lamp. The lamp hung on her side of their conveyance, swaying with every dip and pot hole, casting her profile in light, then dark, then light again.

Lady Beatryce didn’t want to die, surely. But the chances increased with every minute of their enforced proximity. They were already at odds with each other from their four day stay at Stonebridge House…but this…this…closeness…was so much worse.

And he’d felt that way since half an hour into their trip. On their first day out. What would it be like after five days?

Lady Beatryce should be worried.

He could have refused to take the assignment. Ambrose would have grumbled and cursed, but he would’ve accepted his decision…eventually. Ambrose could have easily brought in MacLeod or Kelly.

So why had he said yes? Because someone needed him. He was a fool for it every time.

Even when he despised the very person he was saving, apparently.

Now, he was seriously beginning to regret his capitulation.

He eyed his companion again and wondered aloud, “How can someone as beautiful as you be so ugly inside? Do they teach that sort of the thing at that fancy finishing school you attended or is it a Beckett family trait?”

He didn’t know why he’d voiced the question. It was rude and ungentlemanly. Call it a temporary madness, like when someone decides to poke a stick at a wild animal. Well, that might be idiotic, but at least his madness was only temporary. He hoped.

Lady Beatryce ignored him. She sat frozen as if turned to stone, her expressionless gaze fixated on the scenery passing by outside the window of their traveling carriage. Or what she could see of it. It was cold and dark and damp out. If he peered too closely outside his own window, his breath fogged the glass.

Their ratty conveyance squeaked, rattled, twisted, bounced, and jerked every time its wheels found even the smallest hole in the road—which was often—yet she was so still, one wouldn’t guess that the carriage was even in motion, much less traveling at great speed over such uneven terrain.

Well, well. Apparently, she was very good at cool aloofness and unflinching immobility, when she wasn’t pulsing with unreserved ire that is. He’d seen that side of her often over the last several days. Firsthand. Some might call it passion.

He didn’t.

Yet he really didn’t understand her current behavior. What happened to the passionate virago of the past week? He’d seen every manner of behavior from her—from angry to antagonizing to sarcastic. She’d provoked him at every turn and ordered him around for four days. Utter silence was a first.

He snorted to himself. He couldn’t care less about her current inclination toward aloofness. It was a blessing. For him.

Dansbury sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and turned to study the view outside his window. He pushed thoughts of Lady Beatryce from his mind. Easily and with pleasure. He was glad she was inclined toward silence. Now. He might even finish this unwanted assignment without murdering her. He glanced over at the witch again. Maybe.

He clenched his jaw and his teeth rattled with the windowpanes as they rode over a particularly rutted patch of road. Their unmarked and decrepit carriage squeaked and groaned, but held together. Just. His walking stick vibrated against his leg; the jarring making it slide ever closer toward his knee. He caught it just before it landed on the floor.

Still, Lady Beatryce didn’t move.

Damn, she is good
.

He forced himself to let go morbid thoughts of strangling her and concentrate, instead, on their investigation. And of the secrets their assassin threatened him with…

“Ahem…”

Dansbury blinked and was surprised to see Lady Beatryce come into focus before his eyes. Brilliant blue orbs stared back at him in question, and his gut clenched in response. Clearly, he had been staring in her direction, though it was with unseeing eyes as his thoughts had been inwardly turned. For a moment, he forgot his hatred for this woman. His breath caught in his throat as her beauty hit him like a punch in the gut. Just like that day on the terrace…

He shook his head and reason returned. He lifted his brow in question, exuding supreme confidence and patience. But he also had the inexplicable urge to clear his throat. He forced himself to appear unconcerned as he waited for the witch to respond to his unspoken query.

Lady Beatryce clenched her hands until her knuckles were white with tension. She lifted her chin. “I asked if we are nearly there.”

He reached for his pocket watch without lowering his eyes. He flicked open the lid, and then, after a few seconds more, glanced down to check the time. With exaggerated slowness, he nodded at the time and replaced the watch before returning his attention to his unwanted companion. He tossed his walking stick back and forth between his hands, stalling for time.

Two spots of pink appeared high on her cheekbones. Aha. She noticed he was taking his time and was angry. Good. He smiled at how easy it was to spark her anger. If possible, her fists tightened further. She’d tormented him all week. But she’d played with a master.

“I suspect we shall arrive within the half hour.”

Lady Beatryce relaxed; she unclenched her hands and smoothed out her skirts while he absorbed her every move.

“Do you make it a habit of staring at people in such a fashion?” She said it without once looking in his direction. He would have noticed.

He admired her forward attack. “Only at those I wish to throttle.”

She smiled, and he dropped his walking stick; it rattled about with the carriage before settling half on his foot, half on the floor. He stepped on it and kicked it against the base of his seat. As if he’d meant to do that.

She didn’t remark upon it. “Let us hope it does not come to that before we reach our destination, shall we? Do you have a plan for our arrival? A story to tell? A change of clothes?” Beatryce nodded to the small valise on the seat beside him.

He grinned with pleasure as he prepared to enjoy her reaction to what he was about to say. She was going to hate this. “I’m glad you asked. I do, indeed, have a change of clothes in this bag.” He patted the bag. “For both of us.”

She was once again wearing her wedding finery. It was all she had, save for a small reticule. He hadn’t had time to secure much being that they fled in such a rush. They were fortunate he’d been able to acquire what he had.

She waited, eyes focused and hands clasped, for him to continue—she appeared the serene lady in perfect composure, demure. It was a good act. He wanted to savor this moment for as long as possible.

But he was uncharacteristically impatient. “Unfortunately, we fled in quite a rush, as I’m sure you’ll remember; so you’ll have to understand when I say that we’ll have to manage changing into them…in the carriage.”

He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms behind his head. Satisfied. Like a cat basking in the sun. He was thrilled to provoke her, and he waited with great anticipation to see what she would say or do next. He was rewarded when the pink tinge returned to her cheeks. It shouldn’t have been comely, but he had to admit that it was.

His victory was short lived, though. All too soon, the witch composed herself like a queen.

She said nothing as she reached across the seat and jerked open the valise. If her movements were fitful, one couldn’t blame her. And despite his own wishes, he couldn’t help but admire her fortitude. He was deliberately goading her and she knew it, yet she carried on with apparent confidence.

As she pulled out the dress he had acquired, he couldn’t help but watch for her reaction with inordinate pleasure and heightened expectancy. He had been forced to accept the shabbiest, homeliest dress imaginable on such short notice. He was sure she would hate it. He was not disappointed.

After holding up the dress in front of her to inspect it, she slammed it into her lap and glared at him, her blue eyes sparking with fire. He suppressed a smile. Instead, he acted surprised by her reaction to the god-awful dress. “What seems to be the problem, Lady Beatryce? You don’t appear to be happy with my selection.”

“Are you insane?”

“Lady Beatryce, I realize you are used to more refined clothing, but you must remember we are going into hiding. You cannot expect to wear the latest fashions and remain unobtrusive.” He was pleased he sounded so put off. It took supreme effort to withhold his grin.

She hurled the dress at him. It landed perfectly over his head and swallowed him whole. It smelled like mothballs and sweat and other things he’d rather not think about. He gagged as he sought freedom and fresh air and nose blindness.

“That is not the problem,” came her muffled screech as he fought to free himself from the hideous dress.

Ah, sweet success. She’d lost some of her infamous composure. He could hear it in her voice. Now, if only he could see it with his eyes.

And breathe again.

“The problem is that you picked out a dress that is at least ten sizes too big!”

By the time he unburied himself from the grasping wool, she was entirely poised again. Bah.

“We will have to pull off somewhere before we arrive. I cannot possibly change in here. With you.”

He threw the frock aside and tossed his head to fling his disheveled hair from his eyes. “I’m afraid that is not possible. It is too dangerous to stop on the side of the road. Don’t you realize we are in the middle of nowhere and highwaymen frequent these remote areas? Haven’t you heard the stories?”

Somehow, he managed not to show his enjoyment of pricking her anger. For a moment, he was rewarded when he saw her jaw clench in frustration, but then her eyes turned knowing and suddenly he became all too apprehensive.

Scared shitless actually.

He fought the urge to tug at his cravat like a boy being reprimanded by his nurse.

Lady Beatryce rose and moved to his seat, drifted more like. His mouth turned dry; he reached for his cravat and gave it a quick tug as she presented her back. She looked over her shoulder and with a demure smile and a husky voice, said, “Well, then. You’ll have to help me. I cannot possibly undo all these buttons by myself.”

“…I can resist everything but temptation.”

― Oscar Wilde

Dansbury wiped clammy hands on his trousers. He wasn’t a coward though; he wouldn’t back down. She thought she had him by the balls, did she? Ha! He was unafraid and he would prove it.

He attacked the tiny, pearl buttons of her dress, of which there were a regrettably large number, all the while reminding himself of why he despised this woman. He would show the witch. He was in control. Utterly in control.

Buttons one and two came open with little ordeal.

He’d seen her speak with spite toward people who hadn’t deserved it. He would remind himself of that fact as he undressed her. In a minute.

Button three opened with a little more difficulty.

A thread was caught. He forced the button from its hole. The sound of the thread snapping told him he was being altogether too rough. The result screamed his discomfort. He took a deep breath and forced himself to slow down and not reveal his unease.