The Genuine Article (14 page)

Cursing, Reginald ordered the driver to halt. The driver didn't obey that order any better. All he had succeeded in doing so far was attracting the interest of the ladies. Lady Grace and Jessica seemed oblivious to the consequences of this little spectacle, but Marian had begun to frown in concern. No doubt she meant to reach through the trap door, grab the driver by the coattails, and box his ears if he did not respond to her liking.

He ought to let her do it, but he had been raised to be a gentleman. With a word to Darley, Reginald rode his mount as close to the coach as he dared, reached over and found a handhold on the side, caught his foot on the driver's box, and hauled himself out of the saddle and into the driver's seat. Darley caught Reginald's horse and rode back to the landau to tie the horse on behind.

The surly coachman raised his whip as if to strike, but Reginald hadn't spent years sparring with Gentleman Jackson for nothing. Short of laying the bastard flat, he caught the man's arm, pried the whip loose, and grabbed the reins that were falling lax in the struggle. With a muffled curse, the man gave up and curled in the corner of the box with his flask for sustenance.

"Bravo," a soft voice whispered behind him.

Reginald hadn't been aware that the trap door had been opened until then. He cast a quick squint to the face framed there before returning his attention to the horses. He hadn't expected any other than the dark curls and dancing eyes of Lady Marian, and he wasn't disappointed. The lady was a rare handful, and that was God's honest truth.

"How do your mother and sister fare?" Reginald asked quietly over his shoulder as he found the horses' paces and urged them on.

"They think you very odd but have decided you must belong to the Four-in-Hand Club they have heard about. Apparently the club members are capable of odd stunts." Her voice was soft so as not to be overheard by the ladies chattering with Darley through the window.

Reginald snorted. "I have better to do than wear hideous waistcoats and waste my time destroying good horses. I trust they will not be too disappointed in my lack of dash."

"I am certain they will be quite delighted if you get us there before that storm breaks. My sister is afraid of storms."

So that was the reason for the pensive look. Well, he should have known better than to expect her to be idly daydreaming of true love. Reginald cracked the whip over the horses' heads. "Close the trap, my lady. These nags aren't much, but I mean to spring them."

The coach pitched forward with a jerk and settled into a rocking rumble as the horses took up their new pace. Marian turned back to her mother to discover her looking mildly alarmed. She should have known they were trading Jessica's fear of storms for her mother's fear of speed. Between the two of them, they had enough timidity for three ladies. Marian felt quite justified in surrendering any frailty in herself.

"Mr. Montague wishes to arrive before it rains," she said in pacifying tones.

Lady Grace nodded and, clasping her hands in her lap, refused to look out the window again.

The clouds were directly overhead and the wind had grown to a gale by the time they reached the crumbling gates of Arinmede Manor. If there had once been an actual gate, it was gone now. Only the loosened stones of the posts remained. Gravel slid from the decaying mortar as the coach rattled past.

The drive was lined with ancient evergreens that swayed in the wind. Marian gazed anxiously out the window for some glimpse of the house, but it was obscured by the trees. Lightning crashed, and Jessica screamed shrilly and edged closer to her mother.

"Is this how it looked when we lived here?" Marian asked, eager for any information about the life she had never known.

"The trees were young then. Your grandfather had them planted. He had seen the like somewhere in his travels. They weren't nearly as formidable then."

"Are we close? Did you used to be able to see the house from here?"

Lady Grace wrapped her arm around her younger daughter as thunder rocked the air and the coach lurched in and out of ruts. "The park is extensive, but you should see it soon enough."

The trees appeared ready to whip from the ground and the first drops of rain fell as they rolled from the secluded drive into the curving entrance of the manor. Marian tried to drink it all in as the coach turned and the house loomed before them, but there was too much to see at once.

The manor loomed upward in a solid wall of gray stone. The windows were large and evenly spaced, indicating a house built early in the last century, but both glass and stone were mostly covered in wandering ivy. Brambles that might once have been roses scratched at the bottom rows, and the noise was eerie when heard through the silences between booms of thunder.

The small party waited for some sign of footmen or grooms to come to their aid, but the rapid patter of rain sent Reginald and Darley to ordering their valets into action.

Without waiting for admittance, O'Toole dashed up the steps burdened with several valises, shoved open the massive carved doors, and led the way. Astounded by this impropriety but reluctant to remain in the rain, the ladies hurried to follow.

Once inside, Marian glanced upward. A skylight several stories above the grand entrance hall glistened with stained glass, and she could imagine the dancing patterns it would send across the marble floor on a sunny day. She vaguely recalled lying on the floor and letting the light dance over her, and she could almost hear her father's deep laugh as he found her.

The walls were of a heavy dark wainscoting, without any of the grace and ornamentation of an Adams interior. There was a certain dignity in their lack of ornamentation that carried through in the formal paintings of Greek gods. Marian suspected the long corridor stretching out beyond the foyer led to masculine studies, offices, and billiard rooms. Her attention was drawn upward to the graceful curve of the mahogany stair rail.

That was the direction in which O'Toole led them. With still no sign of a servant, the little party could only mill aimlessly in the foyer, watching the rain pour down in buckets as the last piece of baggage was carried in. The coaches drove off around the bend to the stables, and still no one came to greet them. Taking the initiative, Reginald grabbed a valise and followed his valet up the stairs.

Lord Darley attempted to prevent Marian from carrying any of her own luggage, but it seemed the height of silliness to leave everything belowstairs when it was becoming more than obvious that the manor was seriously understaffed. She managed their jewelry and cosmetic cases while Lily carried hatboxes. Even Lady Grace and Jessica picked up an item or two before they ascended the magnificent stairs.

Glimpses of the rooms to either side of the corridor at the top told the tale of abandonment. Holland covers still hung over the furniture. Spiders scurried into corners and cobwebs dangled from doorways. Desperately, Marian tried to find familiarity in the scene, but there was nothing.

Lady Grace led the way from there, directing the gentlemen to their wing, leading her daughters to the ladies' wing. Lily and the valets scurried between them, arranging boxes and trunks in some semblance of order as the ladies chose two separate chambers and the gentlemen found their own.

Marian discovered Mr. Montague in the corridor when she went in search of one of her boxes, and he allowed her to go through the assortment he carried until she had identified those that belonged to her. He set the stack on an inlaid ebony table covered in dust and rearranged his burden, while thunder roared overhead and the pounding of rain on tile hit the roof.

"Your marquess is more eccentric than I imagined," Reginald muttered as he dusted off his coat sleeve. "There are probably two fortunes in Ming Dynasty china in the sitting room connected to my chamber, but there doesn't seem to be a single servant to see to the fires to keep out the damp. I shudder to imagine how much has been damaged just by neglect."

Marian kept her voice to a whisper as if the walls might have ears. "Have you seen the library? It is utterly immense. I'm afraid to go in it. What if the roof has leaked? The thought of all those volumes ruined makes me shudder."

Montague grinned. "Plan to snatch a few, do you? The old goat will probably not miss them. Shall we rendezvous there when we are unpacked and see what we can find?"

She gave him a sharp look, uncertain as to how much was said in jest, when Darley came up the stairs with the remains of their baggage.

"I say, this is the strangest house party I have yet to see. Do you think we're the only ones here? I have an odd feeling that we ought to turn around and go back." He had doffed his hat and his dark hair bore the signs of wet weather, falling into his eyes until he impatiently shoved it back. His anxious gaze traveled to Marian.

Realizing how their whispered conversation might be misconstrued, Reginald stepped out of the shadows and away from the mischievous Lady Marian. The skylight over the foyer provided some illumination for this end of the corridor. "O'Toole has gone down to the kitchens to see if he can arouse someone. If nothing else, maybe he can find some candles and fuel."

Marian picked up her boxes and started toward her end of the house. "Damp and dark are unpleasant enough, but I am starving. Unless he scares up a cook, I mean to go down and see if the larder is as empty as the rest of this house."

"You must allow me to accompany you when you do, my lady. There could be rogues secreted in these rooms and none would know until they were stumbled upon. If it were not for the weather, I would be in favor of returning to London." Darley set down his own valise and hurried to take Marian's burden.

She gave him an impatient glance but allowed the courtesy. "Mother would be most disappointed. She is taking a sentimental journey through the bed chambers at present, and she means to show me my father's portrait when I am done here. After all, she was once lady of the house. It seems natural that she act the part of hostess again."

Darley glanced at the niches along the halls filled with busts of Greek gods on marble pedestals and shook his head. "It is in serious need of redecoration. These styles went out with the first George, I should think. Perhaps the new marquess wishes to ask your mother's help in renovating this monstrosity."

"Do not let us dream, my lord, we will only be disappointed. Come, if we hurry, we may catch up with her tour."

Reginald watched them go with Marian's warning in his ears.
Do not let us dream
. He gazed up at the particularly ugly portrait of some earlier marquess garbed in the court dress of the sixteenth century. Lousy bastards, all, he decided, to steal a young girl's dreams.

It was a damned good thing he was a practical man. Otherwise, he might be tempted to find the last sorry bastard who had stolen the lady's dreams and beat some sense into him.

* * *

The sorry bastard of Montague's thoughts was leaning against a wall, listening to the scurry of footsteps up and down his dust-covered stairway. With a minimum of effort he could listen to their conversations, but the snatches he had heard were enough to make him uncomfortable. Eavesdropping had never been one of his vices.

But his damned curiosity had him watching for the ladies as they explored along the west wing. The building was still in sound repair so far as he had been able to determine. There shouldn't be any danger in their explorations. He just wished to have some glimpse of his only living relations outside his addle-pated brother.

The hidden corridor he occupied hadn't been built for viewing. When he had first discovered it, he had thought some perverted ancestor had enjoyed watching the inhabitants of the various bedrooms off this floor. But he had been unable to locate viewing holes. He had since come to the conclusion that the hidden corridor was there so the master of the house could visit his mistress undetected. It led directly from the master chamber to a prettily decorated room at the far end of what he now knew as the ladies' wing.

He waited outside the door to that room now. It was hidden behind a wardrobe, and he had left the wardrobe door ajar. If they stood in just the right place, he would be able to see them.

He heard their voices. Already he was learning to separate the sounds and identify them. The placid, assured tones of an older woman was undoubtedly the Lady Grace, his late cousin's wife. The timid, whispery voice of a young girl apparently belonged to Jessica, Lady Grace's daughter by her second marriage. The third voice...

The owner of the third voice was standing just where he hoped, at the foot of the portrait that was her father.

The eighth Marquess of Effingham leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, and studied his young cousin.

She was just as Michael said. Lawrence blood ran true. Dark curls framed a slim face of no great beauty, but the velvet darkness of her eyes and the rosy flush of her cheeks and the soft exclamation of her lips as she looked up at the portrait painted her in all the character of her ancestors.

The marquess fingered his scarred cheek, a cheek that had once been the same sun-warmed hue as hers. He studied the portrait of the man possessing similar features. His own father had looked much like that, although he scarcely remembered the man. His memory came from the miniature in the watch that he had inherited from his mother. The resemblance was strong, although his father had apparently tended toward corpulence in his old age. The marquess didn't like thinking of that, because then he would remember how much younger his mother was, and he began to make excuses for her.