A Matchmaking Miss (3 page)

"Gracious, sir, what is it?"

"A slight case of malaise," he answered, fighting to stay on his feet. Hell, of all the times for the damned fever to strike, he thought, cursing his weakness. But the oddest thing was, he didn't feel the least bit feverish. Usually the disease had him roasting and freez
ing by turns.

"I shall fetch him at once." He felt a firm hand take hold of his arm. "But first allow me to escort you outside. I am sure a breath of fresh air will soon have you feeling more the thing."

Fresh air sounded at that moment like the sweetest thing he could imagine, and Joss muttered his thanks, scarcely aware of where he was being taken. He felt a cool blast of air on his cheeks, and then he found himself being more or less stuffed into the back of a carriage.

"No, wait," he protested, attempting to shake off the thick mists that were insidiously filtering into his brain. "I can't leave without Raj — he is the only one who knows how to deal with this thing."

"Mr. Fitzsimmons will follow, my lord," came a reassuring voice. "Please lean back and relax; you'll soon be feeling better, I promise you."

Had he had the strength, Joss would have laughed. He knew from past experience that he was going to feel a great deal worse before he would begin to recover. He tried telling her, but for some odd reason he couldn't make his tongue work. This new symptom alarmed him, and then suddenly he knew precisely what had happened to him. He struggled to an upright position, forcing his eyes open as he glared at the woman sitting across from him in the closed
carriage.

"You bitch," he said, his slurred words full of contempt. "You damned bitch. You drugged me!" And he fell back against the plush cushions, unable to fight off the black mists that rose up to swallow him.

Chapter Two

So this was the new marquess of Kirkswood, Matty mused, her expression thoughtful as she studied the unconscious man sprawled across the opposite seat. She couldn't say she was overly impressed. Somehow, she'd been expecting someone older, more dissipated, and the tanned, muscular man facing her was a bit of a disappointment. And a source of potential danger, she acknowledged, studying his broad shoulders with trepidation. Ah, well. She shrugged philosophically and dug out the length of rope she'd hidden beneath the cushion. She was nothing if not prepared.

Once her prisoner had been secured, she settled back to enjoy the long journey. All in all, everything had gone just as she'd planned, she thought, as the lights of the city eventually gave way to the blackness of the country. Indeed, the whole thing couldn't have gone any smoother.
The only troubling aspect was Eloise's accusation that she was managing.

The charge was one she'd heard several times in her three-and-twenty years of life, and it had never failed to puzzle her. It wasn't that she
meant
to be managing, she assured herself anxiously; it was merely that having been blessed with a sharp mind and abundant good sense, she could see no reason why she should sit idly by while those lacking such qualities bumbled their way through life. Her papa had been a country vicar, and she'd been raised knowing her duty. But that did
not
make her managing.

Another thing that troubled her was the marquess's reaction to the laudanum. Granted, he was the first man she'd ever had cause to drug, but his responses had not struck her as being normal. She expected him to think he was bosky — not an unusual state for a man of his rank and position — and she'd counted upon it to make him manageable. Instead he'd said he was ill, and asked for his friend, insisting that he would know what to do. Do about what? she wondered, giving him an uneasy look. She'd heard of the fevers a man could pick up in India, and wondered if she'd inadvertently fetched a leper home. The thought was decidedly disconcerting.

The long hours of the night passed slowly as they made their way home. On her way to Lon
don she'd arranged for fresh teams of horses to be waiting at strategic spots along the route, and she was praying they would lend sufficient speed to reach Norfolk before his lordship began stirring. Hopefully, regaining his senses tucked into his ancestral bed would put him in a more reasonable frame of mind, she thought, her lips curling up in an amused smile.

Despite the frequent stops and the need to keep a watchful eye on her prisoner, Matty managed to steal some sleep. Her snippets of dreams left her fretful, and after a particularly vivid nightmare involving a hangman's noose she jerked awake to find the marquess stirring restlessly. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she leaned back against the cushions and waited for him to awaken.

Something was wrong
. The thought registered in some distant part of Joss's brain, but he was too preoccupied with his misery to notice. Whatever jug he'd tangled with last night had left him decidedly the worse for wear, and he greatly feared he was about to cast up his accounts. He hadn't felt this bad since drinking a full bottle of brandy while still at Eton, and he sincerely hoped it would be another dozen years until he felt this way again. God, his head . . . he tried raising his hand to touch it, and was
alarmed when he couldn't make his body respond.
What the hell?
He began to struggle in a frantic effort to free himself.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a gentle voice advised softly. "I didn't tie the knots very tightly, but if you insist upon thrashing about like a landed fish you're likely to do yourself an injury."

Joss's eyes flew open, and then shut again as pain exploded in his head. Taking a deep breath he tried again, focusing his blurry eyes on the dark-haired woman who was sitting facing him, her hands folded primly in her lap as she gazed at him with a look of polite inquiry on her face. When she saw he was fully conscious her smile widened.

"Good evening, my lord," she said, her tone as civil as if they were sharing a cup of tea. "I trust you are enjoying our little journey?"

In a flash, the events of the evening crystallized in Joss's mind, and he cast the woman a furious glare. "You!" he accused between clenched teeth, using his shoulder to push himself into an upright position. "What the devil is going on? I demand that you untie me at once!"

Rather than being cowed by his thunderous tones, the woman merely looked amused, an elegantly shaped eyebrow arching over her brown eyes. "I hope I don't look as foolish as that," she responded, with a low laugh. "I'll only re
lease you when I am certain you won't hit me."

The accusation shocked Joss. "I have never struck a woman in my life!" he exclaimed, furious that she could accuse him of such a thing.

"And I've never kidnapped a marquess," came the calm reply, "so I would suppose that makes us even."

Joss blinked in confusion before trying a new tack. "You can't possibly hope to get away with this, Miss Winkendale . . . or whatever the devil your name is," he said, fixing her in an icy glare. "The authorities will catch and hang you, and I'll be there to watch."

"Perhaps." The woman nodded her dark head in agreement. "But that was always the risk I ran. In the meanwhile I'll have achieved my goal, and I'll have to content myself with that."

Such pragmatism left Joss stunned, his dark auburn brows gathering in a frown as he puzzled over her response. "And what
is
your objective?" he asked, intrigued despite himself.

"Why, getting you back to Kirkswood, of course."

He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

She sighed, her full mouth thinning in annoyance. "I wrote to you," she grumbled, shooting him an accusing look. "Several times, in fact. I begged you to come home, but you were too busy chasing lightskirts to bother. What else
was I to do? Some of the servants haven't been paid in a year, and if we don't plant the north field the harvest — "

"
You
wrote?" Joss interrupted, a trickle of fear stealing down his spine as he wondered if he'd been kidnapped by a madwoman. "The letters I received were from a Mr. M. Stone — my sister-in-law's bailiff."

Her chin came up a little. "Correction, my lord; those letters were from your sister-in-law's companion, Miss Martha Stone." At his incredulous look she gave another smile. "I am named after a cousin on my mother's side."

"You . . ." Relief and shock left Joss temporarily bereft of speech. "
You're
the one who has been pestering me with all those damned letters?"

His captor took instant umbrage at his words. "I'd hardly call a few missives reminding you of your duty 'pestering,' and furthermore I — "

"You drugged and kidnapped me for no other reason than that you wanted me to come home? You have no intention of holding me to ransom?"

"Sir!" She sat upright, her cheeks pinking with the force of her displeasure. "I am a lady, not a criminal!"

"You couldn't prove it by me, madam!" He gave his bound hands an annoyed shake. "Now
kindly untie me. This farce has gone on long enough."

"No."

"We should be near a town. With any luck I can rent a hack and be back in London before . . . What did you say?"

That pointed chin came up even further, and a stubborn look settled in her eyes. "I said
no
, my lord."

Joss gave her a furious look, his anger coiling. "I warn you, Miss Stone, there is a limit to my patience . . . "

"As there is a limit to mine. If you will not honor your responsibility, then I have no choice but to force you. Perhaps
you
don't love Kirkswood, but
I
do."

For a wild moment Joss was grateful he was restrained, else he feared breaking his own word and doing her some injury. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so furious.

"How
dare
you speak to me of duty and Kirkswood," he said, his voice tight with control. "You know nothing of the matter. Nothing."

"I know you've been back in England a month, and yet you've not troubled yourself to visit your brother's widow," Miss Stone said bluntly. "Nor have you responded to any of my letters, except to put me off with threats and promises."

Her accusations stung, all the more so because he knew she was right. "I'm not some errant schoolboy to be sent for," he muttered, hiding his discomfiture behind a scowl. "And for your information, Miss Stone, I was planning to visit Kirkswood within a week or so." For some reason he couldn't explain, he was reluctant to tell her of his plans to drive down on the following day.

"A week or so may have been too late."

Joss was about to demand that she explain that cryptic remark when the carriage suddenly rumbled to a halt. Seconds later the door was flung open, and a hulking man with a cap pulled low over his brow poked his head inside. "We be changin' teams, Missy," he said, casting Joss an uncertain look. "Do ye need to get out?"

"No, I am fine." She gave him a warm smile before turning to Joss. "And what of you, sir?" she asked, her eyes not quite meeting his. "I am afraid I can not risk untying you, but if you have need to . . . er . . . stretch your legs, I am sure my driver could assist you."

Joss stared at her pink face. "No, thank you, Miss Stone," he said with cool irony. "I haven't required any assistance in that particular quarter since I was out of leading strings."

She turned even pinker. "As you wish, my lord. But I warn you, we are still many miles
from Kirkswood."

He didn't answer until they were on their way once more. "Do you intend telling me our driver's name, or is that a secret you mean to take to your grave?"

"It is a secret," she admitted, her hands folded once more in her lap. "In the event that you do have me arrested, I don't intend that anyone else should suffer for my actions. There has been enough suffering at Kirkswood as it is."

"So you have been saying," he commented, studying her through narrowed eyes. She was still wearing that hideously plain gray ballgown, covered by an equally ugly cape that looked several decades out of fashion. Except for the thick, unruly curls escaping from her lopsided bun, she looked as innocent as a governess at tea, and he could scarcely believe she had actually had the brass to kidnap him.

"Well, it's true." Matty scowled at him. Since regaining consciousness the marquess hadn't done a single thing she expected, and she was beginning to realize that she had underestimated her foe. "Things are in a proper tangle, and your neglect has only made them worse. I've tried to help, but there is a limit to what I can do. And now that the tenants are being lured away — "

"Which tenants?"

"The Simpsons, the Tessmans, Tom Florey — "

Joss sat forward at the familiar name. "Tom Florey? He was in charge of the home farm, the last I heard."

"And so he is . . . or rather was, until he decided to accept Lord Wainfield's offer to act as his steward. One can hardly blame him; he has a family to feed, after all, and he can't be expected to go without wages for another year."

"What the devil are you talking about?" Joss demanded, the ropes binding him temporarily forgotten. "My solicitor assured me there were no problems with the estate!"

"Your solicitor? That would be a Mr. Reginald Hedgerton of Harrowby Street?"

"Yes." He wasn't sure he cared for the tone of her voice.

"I've written to him several times since Lord Frederick's death, and I found him to be . . . shall we say, less than sympathetic?" Matty said, her lips thinning in renewed anger at the thought of the solicitor's high-handed behavior. "Easy for him to advise Lady Louisa to live within her means, when he's not the one attempting to keep an estate going on a quarterly allowance."

Joss shifted uncomfortably, recalling that the solicitor had said something about the countess dunning him for more money. At the time he'd attributed her actions to greed, but now . . .

"May I ask what you mean?" he queried, trying not to topple over as the carriage rounded a particularly sharp bend. "It was my understanding that the estate was entailed."

"The estate, yes, but not the fortune to run it," Matty answered, feeling a pang of guilt as he struggled to keep his balance. "The bulk of the money is being held in trust for you, and Mr. Hedgerton seems determined not to part with a penny of it — not even when I wrote to him that Lady Louisa was reduced to selling her jewels to pay the grocer's bill."