The Marquess (34 page)

“My father knew everybody, and see where it got him.
Perhaps I should call in his guards and ask them to carry swords when the
marquess is about.” Dillian spoke mostly to herself as she trailed down
the stairs.

She did know a lot of people. She just hoped when Lady
Darley introduced her tonight, they would accept that Blanche’s companion
had always been an acceptable, if impoverished, part of society.

She prayed none of her father’s disreputable friends
would recognize her should they have finagled their way into an event of this
sort. They might wonder why Colonel Whitnell’s daughter now called
herself Miss Reynolds. She had never met them in Blanche’s company.
Surely, she wouldn’t be so unlucky as to meet them tonight.

Lady Darley smiled as Dillian bounded into the carriage. An
older woman of indeterminate age, she was the widow of some relation of
Viscount Darley, the husband of Marian Montague’s half sister. Dillian
didn’t attempt tracing the family tree but merely accepted her as one of
the numerous single females flitting around the edges of the
ton
. The
lady’s graciousness recommended her more than her relations.

“You are very kind to do this for me,” Dillian
said as she settled herself into the carriage seat.

“Not at all, my dear. I so enjoy shepherding a new
young lady about. It makes me feel young again. The gentlemen will be all over
themselves to meet you tonight. ’Tis a pity it’s not a ball so I
could enjoy watching you dance.”

“A lady as lovely as yourself must spend more time
dancing than watching,” Dillian answered in the same spirit. She had not
much practice at politeness, but she had seen Blanche do it often enough.
Surely, she could survive a single night of it.

Lady Darley smiled and tapped her with her fan. “You
will do very well, my dear, very well.”

Dillian doubted that, but she kept her doubts to herself.
Butterflies danced in her stomach, and her fingers clenched in knots in her
lap, but she wouldn’t admit nervousness to anyone. At the grand old age
of twenty-five, she had nothing about which to be nervous. She had gone past “on
the shelf” to ape-leader.

She meant only to act as friend to a man who had no
knowledge of society. Or civilized society, in any case. Just because that man
was her lover...

Good Lord, she couldn’t even think of that without
burning hot all over. How did women learn to be so blasé about such things?

She had all the time the carriage waited in line to stew in
her own burning juices. The Earl of Dismouth evidently had invited half the
ton
to clear all his obligations at once. Dillian felt surely it must be midnight
and the marquess would have come and gone by the time she and Lady Darley
descended to join the throng entering the earl’s home. Knowing Gavin, he
had walked and didn’t wait for this processional nonsense.

Of course, then again, he may not come at all, Dillian
thought as she gazed around the crowd in search of his rather distinctive form.
It would be just like the irritating man to drag her into this mob and then
decide not to come.

Dillian thought the Earl of Dismouth would swallow his false
teeth when Lady Darley introduced her as Miss Reynolds. He’d met her as
Blanche’s companion, of course, hardly a social equal. She hoped that was
the reason for his startlement, anyway.

Dillian wondered how Michael had obtained her invitation,
but she merely smiled at the old man and murmured something insignificant. She
didn’t like the way those cold gray eyes followed her even after she left
the reception line. Neville kept very poor friends.

She didn’t see Neville, but he no doubt had found a
smoke-filled room in which to politick. She thought it might be amusing if he
saw her here, but she wouldn’t count on that for the evening’s
entertainment. With interest, she scanned the crowd.

“’Tis a pity Lady Marian can’t come
tonight, but there’s Jessica, her sister, and Viscount Darley, her
husband. Have you met them yet?” Lady Darley waved to a lovely blond
young lady and her small but elegantly dark husband. Her relations, Dillian
assumed.

With the lady’s introduction, she joined the circle of
laughing, chattering young people. Neither Jessica nor Lord Darley spoke much,
but their presence drew others, and Dillian’s acquaintance with them led
others to accept her as one of them. She didn’t dispel that notion.

A whisper rolling across the room and a sudden diminishing
of noise levels turned heads toward the entrance. At the sight strolling
through the doorway, Dillian hid her gasp.

Wearing a white satin-lined cape and garbed in black and
white evening clothes that enhanced his lean figure, the Marquess of Effingham
outshone any other gentleman here. Doffing his cape, he swung it and his hat to
the nearest servant as if accustomed to doing so in front of a large assembly
every day. But Dillian knew the effort it took.

Though he held himself proudly, not disguising his scars,
she could tell by the stiffness of his shoulders that one wrong blow could
knock him flat on his face. Every muscle in his body moved tautly as he stepped
down from the entrance and joined the deteriorating reception line.

“Who is that?” someone whispered behind her.

“My word, I don’t know, but I mean to find out,”
a female voice replied.

“Effingham,” Lord Darley said with conviction in
Dillian’s ear. “Shall we go meet him? That is your purpose here
tonight, is it not?”

Dillian didn’t have the tongue to answer. She thought
perhaps she’d swallowed it. She took Lord Darley’s proffered arm
and gratefully let him guide her through the milling mob.

The Marquess of Effingham in starched cravat, evening coat,
and angle-length pantaloons stretched taut over muscled legs left her
speechless. She knew what he looked like naked, for heaven’s sake! Why
should his elegance now play such havoc with her feelings?

Because he looked just what he was: a marquess. A man far
above her reach. Dillian almost felt resentment when Darley approached him and
offered the public introductions necessary for their deception.

A real marquess would have reason to lift his eyebrows in
disdain and turn away from such as her. She couldn’t believe she’d
had the audacity to berate a man like that and order him about as she had. She
must be all about in her brain box.

The Marquess of Effingham could walk through this room and
make heads tumble with just a curt look if he desired. He didn’t even
need his sword. That dark angular face and those nearly black eyes would do the
work for him. The elegance of his clothes spoke of his power to do so.

She almost trembled as she held out her hand. Accepting her
fingers in his, Gavin ruined the effect by raising a quizzical eyebrow and
asking with a mocking smile, “Should I kiss it or shake it?”

Dillian fought laughter. Darley chuckled. Effingham gave her
an evil look, bowed over her hand, and proprietarily placed it on his arm. He
looked her over thoroughly, from her unruly curls tamed by the ribbons, to the
daring décolletage of her gown, to her slipper-shod feet.

“You clean up very well, Miss Reynolds.” Giving
Darley a brief nod, he said, “You’re looking well, Darley.
Don’t let Jessica tease you into anything I wouldn’t do.”

Dillian attempted to remove her hand from his arm, but Gavin
held it firmly. “You may introduce me around, Miss Reynolds,” he
said with the arrogance of the Prince Regent.

“I’m certain Lord Darley is better able to make
suitable introductions, my lord,” she protested.

“And I’m equally certain Darley would rather
bask in his bride’s smiles than mine,” Gavin returned. “Isn’t
that so, Geoffrey?”

The viscount glanced back and forth between the formidable
visage of the marquess to the determined jut of Dillian’s chin. He
answered honestly, “Jessica’s a deal prettier than you, Effingham,
I’ll grant you that, but Miss Reynolds is right, you know. It’s not
seemly to appear too much in her company so soon after introduction.”

The marquess grimaced, and Dillian decided that she liked
the viscount. Few other men would have made such casual reference to
Gavin’s looks without fear of retribution. She decided to rescue him from
the decision she’d forced upon him.

“Since he’s an American, they’ll understand
he hasn’t quite learned the proprieties.”

Darley looked relieved, if slightly amused. “Americans
are notoriously uncivilized, granted. I’m certain you’ll be in good
hands, Effingham. Marian will have your neck if you do aught else.”

“It’s a damned good thing there aren’t too
many Lawrences left in this world,” Gavin agreed, before looking down at Dillian.
“Although the Reynolds might have produced one or two equally well
matched.” He glanced back at the viscount. “I’ll worry about
my cousin. You just keep your own lady in line.”

Dillian didn’t like that gleam in Gavin’s eye.
Or rather, she liked it altogether too well. She felt all slithery inside when
he looked at her like that, and she needed all her concentration to keep her
wits about her.

She realized she stood alone beside Gavin with probably all
of London staring at them. She had no idea how to move, what to say. She only
knew the pressure of his hand against hers, the hard muscle of his arm beneath
his evening coat, and the tension between them. Her fingers bit into his coat,
and he glared down at her.

“All right, termagant. Where do we start? Shall I
growl at your duke first? Glare at the earl? Gnash my teeth at a few cabinet
ministers? Just precisely why have you exposed me to this scene?”

Darting a nervous gaze to curious bystanders, Dillian tried
to remember their purpose here. She watched a fashionably gowned young matron
fan herself as Gavin turned his mocking look and scarred features in her
direction. Why had she exposed him to this appalling scene?

Because of Blanche. Because someone had tried harming
Blanche, and they must find out who and why. If Neville was the culprit, they
had to know which of these people were his friends, and which they could trust.
And if her father’s journals were somehow involved, they must know who
could help them get the journals back, and who they could trust with them. A
lowly Miss Reynolds had no means of learning these things. A Marquess of
Effingham did.

The whole scheme emerged perfectly clear to Dillian all at
once. It gleamed bright and golden in her head. Why on earth hadn’t she
considered it before?

With a brilliant expression of innocence, Dillian announced,
“You needn’t gnash your teeth at the ministers, my lord, you must
smile at their ladies.”

“I’ve heard such appalling rumors! How is dear
Blanche faring, Miss Reynolds? Will she return before the Season ends?”

Dillian translated this as “Is she horribly scarred
and ever coming back?” but she maintained her polite behavior and smiled
dutifully at Lady Castlereagh. “She is doing much better than expected,
my lady. The doctor recommended a change of scenery, and she has taken a villa
in the south of France for a while.”

Having satisfied herself on that topic. Lady Castlereagh
turned her attention from an upstart nobody like Blanche’s companion to a
more immediate interest. “Lord Effingham, I’ve heard so much about
you. Why have you not introduced yourself before this?”

Dillian admired Gavin’s stiff bow. The mocking curl of
his lip didn’t extend to a smile, but Lady Castlereagh didn’t know
that.

Dillian had already introduced him to the wives of the prime
minister and the home secretary. She could tell Gavin had lost some of the hard
edges of his fear, but he remained wary. He had reason. Behind his back, people
whispered and wondered, and gossip flowed without his having done so much as
introduce himself to their society.

She’d seen pity in the eyes of some, revulsion in
others. People preferred perfection. It made them more comfortable. Still, more
than one hopeful miss had come forward at her mother’s urging.

Dillian preferred keeping him steered to the powerful
peeresses, the women behind the men, and away from eager young hopefuls. She
didn’t explain the reason for that to herself.

“As a newcomer to this country, I had much to learn,
my lady. And an estate that needed to be set to rights. It seems the time has
come for learning a little more than my rural abode can provide. It is my great
pleasure to make your acquaintance. I, too, have heard much about you.”

All he’d heard about Lady Castlereagh was her
abominable penchant for gaudy jewels, her husband’s powerful position as
foreign secretary, and her domination of ticket vouchers for Almack’s,
Dillian thought spitefully. But he didn’t need to know more than that.

If a question arose about the patriotism of Colonel
Whitnell, Lord Castlereagh was the man in position to stifle the rumor. Gavin
needed to meet the man. Castlereagh was also in a position to introduce the
marquess to Wellington.

Dillian could not, without risking revealing her
father’s identity. Wellington would know her father was no traitor. Once
they found the journals, he might be the man to receive them.

“Miss Reynolds, would you mind greatly if I borrow the
marquess for a little while? I have several people to whom he really must be
introduced.” Lady Castlereagh claimed Gavin’s arm and had
effectively dismissed Dillian even before she had given her agreement.

The lady didn’t reckon on Effingham’s
stubbornness.

Politely removing her hand from his coat, the marquess bowed
over it and replaced it with Dillian’s. “I beg your pardon, my
lady. I will gratefully call upon you so you may make any introductions you
like, but Miss Reynolds has promised to aid me with some unfinished business.
My regards to your estimable husband.”

Without further ado, Gavin tugged Dillian through the crowd.