An Undomesticated Wife (16 page)

“I am fine,” she said, but her voice was shaky.

“Come. I shall take you home.” He held out his arm, and she let it encircle her shoulders.

She leaned against him as she fought to keep her tears from falling. Surrendering to such a feminine artifice now would infuriate him more.

Wrapped in a blanket, although the air was smotheringly warm, Regina was propped against the pillows in her bed while she watched Marcus pace. The dowager duchess was stretched out on a chaise longue while Aunt Elayne fanned her. The duke sat on the windowseat, a rare frown on his face. Only Mr. Fisher was absent.

“Do you wish to explain?” asked Marcus as he paused in front of the bed.

“I was the victim of this attempted abduction!” she cried. “Why do you treat me as if I were the villain?”

Taking her hand, he said, “Regina, hysteria will solve nothing. Mayhap it would be wise to allow you to rest before we discuss this further.”

“Nonsense!” snapped the dowager duchess, echoing Regina's very thoughts. “This is too dire to dismiss simply because Regina is distressed.”

“I shall try to control myself,” Regina added.

Marcus nodded. “Then explain what you can.”

“I know nothing save that the man spoke Arabic.”

“Arabic?” The duke sat straighter. “Oh, dear me, this is not good. It is not good at all.”

The dowager duchess stretched to pat his hand. “Son, you need not worry yourself about this. The Charleys will teach that Newgate saint a proper lesson.”

Marcus laughed humorlessly. “Do you honestly believe those corned men, who can barely see through their gin-bleary eyes, will do anything save allow the man to escape?”

“Let Her Grace speak,” Aunt Elayne said as she continued to waft the fan in front of the dowager duchess's gray face.

The duke heaved himself to his feet. “I think the wisest thing to do would be for Marcus and Regina to leave Town posthaste.”

“Leave?” asked Regina. “Why?”

The dowager duchess swung her feet to the floor. “Silly child, can't you see the danger right in front of your face? Who knows why a man who spouts Arabic would try to kidnap you?”

“I can think of several reasons,” she replied, then wished she had not when the old woman nodded in agreement.

Marcus tensed. Something was not right here. On that, he had to agree with his father, but doing something as poorly thought out as fleeing Town was jobbernowl.

“That is an excellent suggestion, son,” the dowager duchess said. “But where should they go to?”

Aunt Elayne lowered herself onto the chair. “To grassville.”

“The dowager cottage on the old lands of Attleby Court has not been used in years,” the duke said. “I doubt if many people still know where it is.”

Motioning to Aunt Elayne for help, the dowager duchess came to her feet. “There is much to do. Come along. I shall need everyone's help. Not you,” she added, pointing to Marcus. “You should stay here to offer solace to your wife.”

As the door shut behind the others, Regina pushed out from beneath the blanket. “Didn't I warn you?” she cried, not caring who might hear.

“Warn me?” Marcus asked. “About what?”

“Making wishes. You wanted us to be alone, and now we will be.” She shivered as she added in a whisper, “But we may not be for long.”

He nodded. “Father should come to his senses soon.”

“That was not what I meant.”

“And what did you mean?”

With another shiver, she gripped the pole on the tester bed. “It may not be long before that man comes back … and succeeds in stealing me away.”

Twelve

As the carriage slowed, Regina looked out the window at the trees which seemed no different from the others they had passed during the long ride from London. She stifled a yawn, although she was wrought with tension. That same tension had kept her awake last night while the dowager duchess and Beatty had supervised the packing of two small cases with the things she and Marcus would need while they were in hiding.

She sighed. Not once, not in all the times she had asked, had the duke explained why he was insistent that they leave Town. That Mr. Fisher had been as resolute unsettled her even more. If the two men had a reason, other than an emotional reaction, she would have been pleased to hear it. Instead they had packed Marcus and her up like children bound for boarding school.

Gently she shook Marcus's shoulder. “Wake up,” she whispered.

“Dash it,” he mumbled.

She started at the tired sound of Marcus's voice. When the yawn escaped, she rubbed her eyes to free them from the grit that was as thick and burning as the sand from the Sahara. Sunlight barely filtered through the thick trees on both sides of the road.

“We're stopping,” she said. “Are we there?”

He glanced out the window. He must have seen some landmark that had eluded her. “Nearly. We must leave the carriage here.”

Shifting, she discovered an ache along her hip. She swallowed her moan as she asked, “How much farther?”

“A short ride.” He opened the door and stepped out. She heard his muscles crack as he stretched, and she guessed he was as exhausted as she was. No sign of that showed on his face as he held up his hand. “It would be best if we said nothing more now.”

“You don't trust your coachman?”

“We cannot be certain that someone isn't listening.” He helped her to the ground, then glanced around. “Dash it, but I hate putting Town behind me before the end of the Season. We shall be suffocated by ennui out here in grassville.”

She rested her fingers on his black wool sleeve. “Marcus, I am sorry. I had no idea that your father would react like this.”

Instead of the commiseration she had expected, he left her to get the horses tied to the boot of the carriage. She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. She would not weep. That would only put more distance between Marcus and her, although she wondered if that was possible. A gulf as wide as the Mediterranean had separated them since he agreed to the duke's decree that they must seek haven here in Warwickshire.

Had his father explained to Marcus his reasons for this peculiar request? She was sure he had. Otherwise, Marcus would not have come with her. Another pang cut through her when she recalled seeing him handing his valet a slip of paper. No doubt, Andrews was to deliver it to Mrs. Simpson along with an apology from Marcus.

Nothing had been changed by fleeing London, except for the worse.

Regina gathered the full skirt of her habit and walked to the horses. Dust drifted through the air from the carriage's passage. It clung to her and made a soft fuzz on Marcus's dark hair.

Three horses waited. Two were saddled, and the third was burdened with the cases containing their things as well as a chest of food. Easily Marcus tossed her into the saddle, then took the reins of the other horses from the coachman.

“Do not look back,” Marcus ordered. “You must not see in which direction we travel.”

“Aye, my lord.” The coachman exchanged an uneasy glance with the tiger.

Mounting, Marcus motioned for Regina to follow. She did not turn to see the carriage driving in the opposite direction. Dismay flooded her as she realized how alone they were and how vulnerable.

The stone cottage was set in what once might have been a clearing, but briars and ferns had long ago overgrown it. As Marcus pushed through the greenery, like an explorer in the African jungle, Regina followed in silence. He had said nothing to her since they rode away from the carriage more than an hour before. Her few attempts to start a conversation had been met with a cold wall, so she had given up, not even asking if he thought he was confusing her—or anyone else—by riding around in circles. By her estimate, they were less than a league from where they had started.

When Marcus opened the door, Regina stared around in dismay. When the dowager duchess had told her this cottage had been unused for years, Regina had not guessed that no one had tended to it in all that time. Only faint sunshine oozed past the rickety shutters which covered the windows.

Odors of musky damp rose from the furniture in the single room on the ground floor. Not that there was much furniture. Several heavy wooden chairs without cushions and a variety of tables were set in front of what once might have been a lovely hearth. Several of the stones were missing, and what looked suspiciously like a nest filled one of the niches. A set of stairs led to the upper floor, but she knew it would be caper-witted to assume the rooms there were in better condition than this one.

“This is odious,” announced Marcus as he dropped their two bags on the uneven floor.

“If all goes well, we will not need to stay here for long.”

“Long enough,” he grumbled.

“The dowager duchess assured us that she would send word immediately once the danger is past.”

Slipping off his coat, he asked, “What danger?”

“You don't know?”

He laughed shortly. “How would I know? It is remarkable that my father took a silly notion into his head and convinced Grandmother to heed him. But I have no idea why we have been packed off to the country as a result of what happened yesterday.”

“He feared for me and wished for me to be safe.”

“Wish? Isn't that what you warned me against doing?”

Drawing off her gloves, Regina said, “Marcus, please don't be mulish. I am as fatigued as you are, and I am as curious as you about your father's actions. He said nothing to you of why he wished us to leave?”

He knelt and opened the smaller case. Pulling out a stack of papers, he said, “This, he told me, is supposed to explain the whole situation. We are to read these when we are settled in.” He grimaced again as he stood. “I doubt if we will ever be able to make ourselves feel at home here.”

Regina was surprised when he handed the pages to her. She sorted through them. A quick glance told her that they were correspondence the Duke of Attleby had had with her father, but they were in no sort of order. She began to sort them by date, then paused when she saw one that was not written in her father's meticulous hand.

Dropping the others onto a filthy table, she read:

My Lord Duke
,

Please accept this missive as a warning of possible danger to your daughter-in-law, Regina Morrissey Whyte. Information obtained by our men in North Africa suggests Lady Daniston may be the target of a plot that reaches from Algiers to England. Algerian agents are known to be in London. Please take every caution
.

Yours faithfully
,

Benjamin Sheldon

Sitting on a dusty chair, Regina pressed her hand to her lips. She had thought she had left those uncomfortable aspects of diplomatic life behind her in Algiers.

Marcus took the letter from her, read it, and with a curse, threw it onto the hearth. “Dash it! Why did Father say nothing of this?”

“It was dated only last week.”

“From your dear friend Sheldon.”

Fiercely she said, “This is no time to let jealousy rule you, Marcus! We must think clearly.”

“You think I am jealous of you and that carpet-knight?”

“Yes, although you have no cause to be. Benjamin has been a friend since I was a child, and he still thinks of me as a younger sister.”

Pulling off his coat, he tossed it atop a chair, paying no mind to the cloud of dust that exploded upward. “Then he is more of an addle cove than I gave him credit for.”

“Stop this!” she cried. “My life—our lives—may be in peril, and all you can think of is your wounded pride. I shall not let your self-centered concern be the death of me.”

He glowered at her, and she waited for him to fire back another answer. Instead he muttered, “What a muddle this is!”

“Are you going to stand there and lament all night?” She stood and went to the other case. Opening it, she drew out a black case that was edged with mahogany strips. She brought it back to the table and set it in front of him. “We have to be ready for anything now.”

“What is this?”

“Papa's wedding gift to you. I had hoped I could wait until the wedding ceremony to present it to you, but some intuition told me to add this to what Beatty was packing.” She opened the lid to reveal a matched set of dueling pistols tooled in silver. “I was surprised when he chose such a gift, but he said he understood that you valued a fine weapon.”

Marcus reached in and withdrew one of the pistols. Balancing it in his hand, he raised it to look along the barrel. “This was made by a master.”

“Do you enjoy hunting?”

“Occasionally.”

“I thought that might be why Papa chose these for you as a gift.”

He set the gun back in its case and closed the top. When a hint of regret filled his voice, she wondered why. “I think I would as lief keep these only so I might admire the excellent craftsmanship.”

“Than what?”

“Take aim on a man's heart.”

Again shock riveted her. “You have fought duels?”

“One.”

“How could you be so want-witted? How could you risk your life for nothing but pride?” She shrugged. “You have no need to look for such excitement now. It has found you.” Her voice dropped. “And me.”

She looked at him, longing for him to put his arms around her and let her lean her cheek against his chest. Enfolded in his embrace, she could feel safe.

Instead of holding out his arms to her, Marcus walked to the door. “I shall see to the horses while you see what you can do with the house.”

“The house?”

His voice lashed her. “This is not, as I should not need to remind you, the time to argue about your wifely skills. Do what you can. I have no interest in living in a hovel.”

Regina flinched when the door closed loudly behind him. Even though she could understand his frustration, because Benjamin's letter had given them nothing more than a tantalizing hint of the danger lurking in the shadows of Town, she wished Marcus could offer her some solace. He should be angry … but not at her.