To Marry a Marquess (5 page)
Guilt pricked at Victoria's conscience. One day, when things were better, she would venture to Nightham Manor and explain the entire situation to the countess. She owed the lady the truth, no matter what the ninnyhammer downstairs had said to her. And she certainly would not be going anywhere with him!
She hurriedly rose from the bed and locked the door. Her gaze snapped to the window where a robin sat chirping in a tall elm tree within an arm's length of the inn.
She immediately made her decision. She had always been good at climbing trees. She just hoped her legs could handle the drop.
Drake sat in the taproom, snapping his pocket watch shut for the third time. The shock of his friend's murder overwhelmed him, but it was the disturbing death scene that formed a hollow ache in his soul. There was nothing to be done but to fulfill Nightham's request to take care of the female.
Frowning, Drake shifted his gaze to the stairwell. He had been waiting thirty minutes already. Where in blue blazes was that woman? After what he had been through today, he had no use for more chaos, but he was inclined to believe that Nightham's acquaintance was going to do her best to drive him mad.
He stretched his legs toward the hearth and grimaced as a pair of aquamarine eyes flashed in his mind. He knew his behavior was abominable, but he had no help for it. She was a pauper and deserved a few contemptuous glances for her deceitful plan. However, he was reasonably sure she had nothing to do with the hideous death of his friend.
He blinked. Or had she? The question simmered in his mind as he swirled the glass of brandy in his hand. He would never fall prey to a beautiful face again. He had no need to be involved with another Honoria. But the tumultuous feelings he had for Nightham's lady were beginning to worry him.
His gaze narrowed on the orange flames dancing before him. Surely his friend could not have married her. But then again, she was registered at the inn under Nightham's name.
Yet the upstairs maid had assured him that Lord Nightham had placed Lady Victoria—that was the name the maid had given him—in the room soon after she had departed from the carriage. Nightham had left her with another female servant, having never stepped foot in the chambers again.
Drake whipped his fingers through his hair. It could not have been grief he had seen in those turquoise eyes. She could not have loved Nightham, not a penniless chit.
Still, there was no reason for Lady Nightham to know of her son's scandalous escapade or of the woman upstairs. If he had his way, no one would learn about Lady Victoria, ever. He owed Nightham that much at least.
Drake's gaze moved to the door of the tap as a tall, fair-haired gentleman in a layered black cloak bobbed his head in greeting and took a seat at the far corner table.
Drake did not know the man, but from one gentleman to another, he nodded back, drumming his fingers on the table. He would have waited in the private dining room, but he wanted to listen to the locals as they slowly congregated in the tap. The conversation centered on the murder.
"A lord, he was."
"Knifed in the back."
"Fight over a woman, I think."
"Blood everywhere."
Drake winced, but he had yet to hear Nightham's name. He had to get the woman out of the inn as swiftly as possible. He had paid the servants not to talk, but one never knew.
He looked at the stairwell again, knowing from this angle that he would see her enter the private room with no one the wiser. He knew there was another door to the kitchen from the private dining room, and he had already decided to take his leave from there.
How long was she going to take? If this was her way of trying to send him to her chambers, she would be sorely mistaken.
He started for the stairs, his Hessian boots clacking against the pine planks as he climbed the steps. He raised a hand to her door, and rapped hard against the wood.
Silence.
The smell of rotting wood seeped through the floor boards beneath him. He glanced down the hall. Two dusty sconces lit the corridor. It was a deplorable inn, a place his friend should never have come.
He rapped louder upon the door, scowling as he remembered the key lying on the table inside the room. "Madam, it is time we left."
He stiffened when the answer was nothing but the rumble of voices from the tap. Had the lady run out the back? No, he would have seen her descending the stairs.
He stared at a knot of wood on the door and frowned. The notion of him not fulfilling the promise to his friend made him clench his hands in rage. He knocked again with no response, biting back a curse at the very idea of the woman slipping through his fingers.
"Lady Victoria?" Nothing.
A shiver clipped down his spine, making his blood run cold. Something was wrong. And, dash it all, he felt something for that woman he had no right to feel. He must be mad.
Nightham had died in his arms, and that very same day Drake was yearning for a woman he could not have.
Ramming his shoulder against the door, he broke past the lock. His gaze immediately shifted to the curtains blowing steadily across the window. "Lady Victoria?"
Her name fell easily from his lips as he hastened across the room, breathing in the lingering scent of roses. Looking past the window, he noticed a huge tree that brushed up against the inn.
He stared in shock, his jaw tightening. She had scooted down the tree and jumped!
He slammed his fist against the sill and cursed.
Beyond the ground, shadows blended into the night, making detection impossible. A murderer was on the loose, and the confounded female had left his protection.
First Nightham and now this! Though he had no notion of the woman's full name, Drake made a solemn vow to find her.
Devil take it! It was a matter of honor now.
Chapter
Three
V
ictoria held the teacup to her lips and stared out the window of her aunt’s townhouse. A drizzling rain beat against the cobblestone streets, adding to the miserable feeling churning inside her. It had been two weeks since Nightham’s death, yet it seemed like yesterday.
Her family was to return home today. They would not have known of her absence since they had been staying in the country near the Duke of Glenshire's Estate for the past two weeks. Victoria had asked to be excused from the journey because of a slight cold, and though Phoebe had planned on canceling their outing in the country, Victoria had insisted that the lady do nothing of the sort.
After much cajoling, Phoebe reluctantly agreed to travel without her niece, but only on the promise that if Victoria became worse, she would send a letter by special messenger immediately. Mrs. Dorling, their housekeeper, was the sole person who knew about Victoria's absence. Although the elder woman did not like the idea of Victoria's flimsy excuse to visit a sick friend, she told Victoria she would say nothing to Lady Phoebe, since the poor lady had enough to worry about.
Sighing, Victoria placed her drink on the rosewood sideboard and fished inside her pocket for the ruby ring. She would never sell it, and she dared not show it to anybody. She could never claim to be a countess. People might believe she killed Nightham. Her family would never survive the scandal. And who knew if she had been legally married to the earl in the first place?
Nightham's death had been reported in the papers, but the news had been scant at best. The pirate must have paid a good sum for the story to be hushed.
Sheer panic rippled through her veins at the thought of that man. It was a miracle she had escaped him. After she had descended the tree, she had made a mad dash to the stables and discovered a driver heading back to London with his master's coach. A few blinks of her lashes, and she had a lift back to Town.
She would have been a good wife to Nightham, she told herself. Her family had needed money. What else could she have done? There was no man to provide for Aunt Phoebe. Little William needed proper schooling. And Sarah deserved a proper dowry. But now, all seemed lost.
Where were the papers to prove her marriage - if there was a marriage in the first place? And should she seek answers from a solicitor and risk the chance of being thrown into Newgate for Nightham's murder? Or was it best to stay quiet?
Her head had been spinning with questions since Nightham's death. But at the moment, keeping quiet seemed the best alternative until she decided what to do. Tears burned the back of her eyes as she thought about the earl. She could not outwardly mourn him because everyone would know of her predicament and accuse her of murder. She had only made things worse by her impulsive actions.
Her stomach tightened in dread as she thought about her family's situation. It had been two months earlier when she had come across her aunt's ledger. She had met Nightham at a ball days later. Aunt Phoebe rarely accepted invitations to balls because they reminded her too much of Uncle Henry. Phoebe kept to the fringe of Society, living in a small world of close-knit friends and cozy soirees, but it seemed that the ball had been one of her exceptions.
"Hellooooo! Anyone here?"
Victoria quickly dropped the ring back into her pocket and wiped the tears from her eyes as William's voice reverberated throughout the house. Her family was home.
She smiled when she caught sight of the boy taking a flying leap in the hall and landing on his bottom with a pronounced thud.
"Whew! That was fun, Mama. Can I do it again? Can I?" The boy jumped up, ready to partake in another jump, when Aunt Phoebe held him back.
Victoria laughed, watching her little cousin wiggle like a worm on a hook, trying to disengage himself from his mother’s strong arm.
"Enough, William," Phoebe exclaimed. "I declare, you smell like a dead fish. Take off those wet things this minute. You’ve tracked mud everywhere. Look at those stairs, young man."
Aunt Phoebe looked stern, but beneath that taut expression was a heart as soft as cotton.
"William, I'm warning you," Phoebe replied. "Not another step or you will spend the rest of today and tomorrow in your room. Do you understand, young man?"
"Yes, Mother." His bottom lip formed into a large shovel while his blue eyes twinkled with mischief. Before Phoebe had a chance to grab him again, he jumped out of her arms and bounded into the drawing room.
"Vicki," he cried. "Did you miss me?"
Victoria grinned as her cousin's muddy shoes thumped across the rug. Unruly golden locks peeked out from a dark blue cap. She pulled him into her arms, swinging him around full circle, then set him down.
"Well, William." Her wary gaze took in the boy's devilish smile. "What gift have you brought back for me this time?"
William, known for carrying around tiny creatures of one sort or the other, especially after a trip from the country, thumped his chest with his fist and peered up at her with two of the most innocent blue eyes in the world.
"Moi?"
Victoria raised a finely arched brow. At six, the boy was smarter than most ten-year-olds. "Yes, you."
"Oh, Victoria, you missed a marvelous time."
Phoebe walked into the room. She pulled off her gloves and straightened her lavender traveling outfit, giving William a stern eye at the mud he had dragged in.
Victoria smiled.
At forty-years-old, her Aunt Phoebe was still a beautiful woman. Her blond hair, swept high on her head, posed not a streak of gray. Her bubbly personality only added to the beauty of her slender form and her wonderful heart. Though the lady swooned a little too often, the males that swarmed around her seemed to enjoy that feminine eccentricity.