The Genuine Article (13 page)

"If the estate was in sad shape, there would have been no reason for the man to return, particularly if he was wealthy. Americans hold very little store by titles, I understand."

"That's true." Marian turned away from the window to face him. "I suppose now he is ill, possibly dying, and thinks to clear up matters he has neglected. Should I be gratified that he has chosen now to interfere in our lives?"

"Perhaps he is childless and means to make you heir to all his wealth," Reginald responded maliciously. "Do you wish to wait before pawning your necklace?"

Marian's eyes widened as she remembered their earlier conversation. "The necklace! It's a family heirloom. Do you think he means to ask for it back?"

"You mean it is not yours to sell?" Reginald gave her a shocked look.

"It is." Marian set her chin. "My father gave it to my mother. It was not on the inventory of entailments or my mother would never have taken it with her. It is ours to do with as we wish."

"Then perhaps you will wish to wait to sell it until after you discover if he means to make you any monetary gifts. Dying men sometimes like to salve their consciences."

She heard the cynicism in his voice. "He is more likely meaning to make my life miserable in some manner or another, but you are right. I cannot pawn the necklace until I know what this is about. Perhaps he might even lend us the money of his own accord. I would sleep much easier if I knew the necklace was where it belonged."

Reginald lifted his hand as if to touch her, but Lily hurried in with the tea tray, and his arm fell back to his side. Making his excuses, he collected his hat and left.

Oddly enough, Marian felt strangely bereft with his departure.

* * *

Reginald uneasily jiggled the two boxes in his coat pockets. He had retrieved the necklace and the copy just after leaving the shop for the day. He knew Darley had the lady occupied for the evening. There would be no good opportunity for returning the jewels to her now. He wished he had a safe in which to deposit them. He'd never owned enough valuables to bother acquiring one.

The elongated boxes were difficult to hide, and he had a thief for a valet. Questioning his sanity, Reginald withdrew the plain box in which rested the copy. As he entered his chamber, he threw it on his dressing table in plain sight. He could not conceivably keep both boxes hidden from his nosy valet, but he might distract him with the paste long enough to return the valuable one to the lady on the morrow. She would want to take the original with her on her visit to the marquess.

The real ruby in its velvet container he secreted among the belongings already packed in his valise. Upon hearing that his master was invited to visit the manor house of the new Marquess of Effingham, O'Toole had been beside himself with delight. Reginald wasn't certain whether to be relieved by his valet's behavior, or suspicious. Either the man was happy to be returning to his home, or had no reason to fear returning because he'd never been there. Reginald hadn't quite decided which.

The object of his thoughts arrived bearing a stack of laundered shirts, grinning as he caught sight of his employer. "You are home. What entertaining jaunt will we take this evening? The Opera? Or will you wish to visit your ladybird before going on an extended journey?"

"O'Toole, you are insolent to an extreme. Just see that I have sufficient clean linen for the morrow, and I will take care of myself for this evening." Reginald pulled off his wilting cravat and began to shrug out of his coat.

O'Toole pretended offense. "Everything is all prepared. It is only a matter of knowing where to load it. Surely the curricle will not be sufficient for the journey? Shall I hire a phaeton?"

"I will be traveling with Darley in his landau. There will doubtless be more than adequate room for everything you have managed to pack in every valise and portmanteau in the house. Do not concern yourself."

"You have not told me how long you plan to stay. I have no choice but to be ready for any event," the valet replied huffily, as he helped his employer pull out of the coat. "Your lady will expect you to look your very best."

"She is not my lady, confound it." With his arms freed of the tight coat, Reginald began on his shirt buttons. "She is Darley's lady. I only accompany them out of friendship."

"Lady Marian is much too spirited for a gentleman like Lord Darley," O'Toole replied disapprovingly. "She needs a gentleman with the strength of character of yourself."

Reginald flung the shirt across the room. "I do not intend to marry, O'Toole, and I am certainly not wealthy enough to meet the lady's standards. Now leave off, or you're sacked."

O'Toole hummed happily as he assisted his employer in his ablutions and in preparing for the evening's excursion. Matters were far from perfect, but they were proceeding obligingly. The valet doubted that he would be rewarded for his outstanding diplomacy, but playing strategist was much more amusing than standing in the pouring rain moving walnut shells and peas around for the entertainment of spectators. Perhaps he should have made a career out of politics.

As soon as Montague left for the evening, O'Toole settled himself at the dressing table where the jewel box had been resting temptingly all evening. He was already familiar with all the jewels in the Montague household, and this box wasn't among them. He snapped open the lid and whistled.

The ruby winked in the lamplight. The diamond setting sparkled. The gold glittered almost as if genuine. O'Toole ran the ornate chain between his fingers. It wouldn't fool an expert, but it would fool just about anyone else. He didn't have to think twice to know where the original came from. The necklace was unforgettable to anyone with any familiarity with jewelry at all. He had admired it more than once on portraits of the late marchionesses of Effingham.

Still whistling, O'Toole replaced the necklace, stood up, and gazed around the room. Where there was a copy, there was bound to be an original. It might not be here, but he could think of no other reason for his wily employer to leave the fake sitting out. He started with the partially packed valise.

* * *

The Eighth Marquess of Effingham, Earl of Arinmede, Viscount Lawrence, stared at the single candle lighting his neatly ordered and exceedingly dust-laden desk. The heavy, moldering draperies on the windows behind him adequately insulated against night sounds, but they wafted gently every so often in the breeze from the broken windowpanes. The candle flickered against the darkness whenever they did so.

Volumes of books lined the study wall across from the desk. The candlelight occasionally caught a flicker of gold on a binding here and there, but the marquess wasn't overtly aware of it. There was another room just down the immense hall with more volumes than this, a veritable library larger than most he had seen in America. He was still rather in awe of the generations of history and knowledge stored within these walls. But it wasn't the past that currently concerned him.

Crumpling a hastily scribbled note and flinging it at the faded Turkish carpet, he muttered a "Damn Michael to hell and back." Reaching for a brandy decanter, he poured a sizable amount of liquid into a snifter.

He couldn't see the mirror on the side wall that reflected his image as he picked up his glass. The image wouldn't have looked out of place in the portrait gallery above. It reflected a tall, broad-shouldered man with black hair too long at the nape, a dark, sun-weathered complexion, and a sharp, aristocratic nose with a slight hump in the middle. Piercing eyes beneath heavy brows added to his brooding appearance. When he turned, the candlelight did not quite catch the white scars shattering one side of his otherwise handsome visage.

The marquess sipped the brandy and damned his own curiosity along with the absent Michael. It had only seemed natural to look up the relatives he had never known, once he had finally reached England. He glanced derisively at the ornate ceiling and faded gilded molding above the bookcases that represented his new home.

He had only been a boy when he came into the title, and he had not learned of it until the death of his mother. It had taken him years after that to scrape together the funds to arrive in England in some semblance of style. He'd had visions of a rambling stone mansion with servants and tenants and all the things he had remembered hearing about when he had been a child. He should have known an estate that couldn't afford to finance an heir's trip to England wouldn't be worth arriving to claim.

And now Michael was giving him this folderol about the penniless dowager and her daughter as if the marquess were capable of resolving any problems of his unknown relatives. In actuality, he had hoped to locate a rich earl or two on the family tree to hit up for loans on the sentimental basis of saving the family homestead or whatever. A penniless widow wasn't precisely what he had in mind.

He groaned and sank back in the chair. It exuded dust with every movement, but it was one of the few pieces that hadn't been covered by those infernal ghostly linens that were scattered everywhere in the house. He wondered how far it would get him to sell off the moldering furniture. Back to the states, at least.

He ought to wring Michael's neck for this. They had spent the better part of their lives surviving on their wits alone. Why didn't Michael know to leave things as they were? What was he supposed to do, wave his magic wand and open the manor for a house party? Michael was the one with the magic wand. Let him wave it.

That thought relieved the marquess's disgruntled mood. Grinning at a worn tapestry blowing in the breeze, he lifted his snifter in toast to his own good sense. Let Arinmede Manor welcome guests one final time.

Chapter 11

When the travelers set out the next morning, Darley's landau carried two valets and an assortment of baggage. The gentlemen chose to ride alongside the carriages, where they could occasionally lean over and converse with the ladies through the windows of the marquess's coach.

The coach was of the old-fashioned kind, with badly sprung wheels and four unmatched hired horses. The driver was taciturn and undemonstrative, occasionally tippling from a flask in his coat pocket as the day wore on. Both Reginald and Darley kept a wary watch on him.

But Reginald was also distracted by the wealth he was carrying on this journey. He did not like taking the necklace with him, but he'd had no time to find a safer place to deposit it. He would have preferred to return it to the ladies, but the opportunity had not yet arisen. He hoped this evening he could find a moment alone with Lady Marian.

He hadn't breathed easy on the prior night until he had returned to his chamber and checked to find the duplicate where he had left it and the original safely tucked in his valise. O'Toole had said nary a word about it, which was suspicious in itself, but he had left the ornament alone. Uncomfortable allowing the necklace out of his sight, Reginald had taken the original out of its box and tucked it in his purse before setting out this morning. As a precaution, he carried a pistol in his saddle.

The early morning journey had started out under blue skies. A spring breeze tossed the heads of jonquils as they entered the country. Bird song filled tree branches covered with new green leaves. The fresh air had made the ladies smile until even the shy Jessica was laughing over some jest of Darley's. Reginald thought perhaps he ought to get out to the country more often.

His gaze strayed to Lady Marian's thinly drawn face framed in the window as she gazed pensively over the fields. She was wearing her yellow bonnet again, and a ribbon curled enticingly against her cheek. She brushed it away, only to have it fall back again an instant later. She didn't seem to notice.

He tried to follow her gaze, but Darley was on the other side of the carriage, and she was seated with her back to the horses, staring behind them. He didn't think she was seeing the lovely spring day at all, but rather some dark cloud she imagined on the horizon.

Reginald discreetly allowed his mount to nibble at a patch of grass along the roadside while glancing back the way they had come. To his surprise, there
were
clouds on the horizon. If they did not stir the carriages to a faster pace, they would no doubt be caught in a rainstorm.

The blamed woman should have said something. Irritated, Reginald spurred his horse to take up with Darley's. Pointing out the clouds, they agreed on a faster pace, and he ordered the driver to spring the horses. The taciturn coachman just gave him a disgruntled look and reached for his flask.