The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler

Thirty-Two

T

he incantations in the trees were increasing to thundering ruminations every day. Their resonance reverberated through Griston’s bones, and he couldn’t escape. Thankfully, Brockway had Lady Maudsley locked in an embrace and didn’t notice as he stole back inside the ballroom.

It was imperative to be seen. Perhaps he’d even chance a dance with some pristine debutante. It wouldn’t hurt to remarry and sire a spare. The dance in progress was the quadrille and not conducive to stepping into the line. Ah, well.

Loren stopped off for a word with a group of cronies who brought up Harlowe’s name, but nothing was said that could tie Loren to the missing viscount, and he excused himself.

It was by the sheerest luck that he’d seen Lady Maudsley with Brockway on the Faulks’ terrace. Markov’s sudden appearance was deuced inconvenient. But then, the man personified inconvenience. Their heated exchange had at least occurred a ways from the terrace behind a copse of trees.

Loren had watched Brockway and Lady Maudsley carefully, looking for signs they or others had heard the Slav’s threats. Markov had no patience or control to save his life, and Loren vowed to even the score. How tempting and worthy of the cause, even at personal cost. The man was an idiot.

Markov lifted his hand in the direction of Loren’s cravat.

Loren was ready this time and took the Slav by his own loosely tied one and jerked him close. “Do not dare to fuck with me. You’ve already cost me more than one opportunity. I’ll kill you if you touch me a second time.” He squeezed tighter. “Are we clear?”

Markov’s eyes widened.

“I said, Are. We. Clear?”

“Áno,” he choked out.

“Excellent.” Loren shoved him away. “Now, take yourself off. I’ll have this business completed tonight.”

The Slav melted away.

The trees bristled with their confusing dialect so dense, he could barely hear the music above the din of noise. It hurt his head. Dark colors whipped his vision in nauseating swirls. He made his way on the grounds below the terrace and worked his way through an assembly of carriages until he located Sid atop his own equipage. “Stay here. I-I need people to believe I am still about,” he said. “I’ll walk.”

Careful to appear unhurried, the three-quarter-mile trek to Maudsley House took little more than ten minutes, while each step increased the pounding in his head, as if a tradesman did stonework inside his brain. In minutes he stood at the garden gate and thought of the task ahead. The goal inside was to avoid being recognized. By the both the older daughter, her governess, and the servants.

A fleeting thought of his own son wavered through Loren. By his calculations, the children should be abed. He was quite strict on such matters for Winslow. He shook his thoughts away. He had no business humanizing his actions at this juncture. It was much too late for that.

The formal clothes he wore blended into the night, except for his snowy cravat, and would serve his purposes well.

“This way, my lord.” Farcle’s low whisper jarred Loren. The man was quiet as a ghost. His voice reached him through the depth of night.

Loren glanced over his shoulder, spotting the unmarked hackney. “I trust acquiring these accommodations will not impede our plans.”

“No, my lord. They should work nicely.” Farcle didn’t elaborate, and Loren decided it didn’t much matter. “What of the lady of the house and her parents?”

“Lady Maudsley and Lord Brockway were sharing an intimate conversation on the Faulks’ terrace not fifteen minutes ago.” Loren smiled grimly in the dark. “The baron was morosely losing in the card room, while his wife was happily plotting out her daughter’s next marital prospect. I don’t believe she includes the Marquis of Brockway in that lineup. Too arrogant and headstrong for the baroness to control is my guess.”

Loren stepped through the gate and followed Farcle to the servants’ entrance. He went past Farcle in silence and turned the knob on the door. “It’s locked.”

“Step aside, sir. I’ll handle this.”

“Let’s check the nearby windows first. Though I think breaking the glass on one will suit us well before we leave.”

Two windows over, one of the locks was loose, and Loren watched as Farcle used his dagger to jimmy it free. Farcle crawled through then let Loren in at the door. He pulled his gloves tighter and paused at the servants’ stairs. With a short motion, he indicated that Farcle should follow and started up.

The fifth one up squeaked, halting them in their tracks.

After a short wait, and no screams for the constable, they continued on their way. The house was laid out not so dissimilar to his own. It wouldn’t have mattered regardless. Loren was a blessed man. His luncheon with the baron the previous week had allotted him the opportunity to scope out the children’s bedchambers two levels up. He remembered the location of the nursery quite clearly. If all went as it should, they could snatch the sleeping Cecilia without so much as a whimper and be out before the older child and governess were ever made aware.

Once they reached the third level, Loren slowed his steps, almost groaning aloud. He heard the sound of his quarry arguing soundly with someone. It took only seconds to find her. They stood in the bedchamber, not the schoolroom. She was a headstrong little thing, the complete opposite of Winslow. He motioned Farcle in, seeking cover for himself in a shadowed corner. Farcle grabbed Celia’s wrist.

“Hey. I-I know you! You’re Gwiston’s man. You took that boy—”

The governess drew herself up. “Let her go or I’ll scream,” she said. She opened her mouth to do just that, but Farcle’s fist caught her across the jaw, and she dropped in a heap. Nothing graceful about it.

“You-you… scoundrel,” Cecilia gasped, fighting his hold on her. “You hurted her. You hurted Miss Lambert.”

“Let’s go,” Loren hissed.

But the child had other plans. In an abrupt move, she stopped, planted her feet, and moved her arm in an odd position and jerked straight up. Farcle was so shocked, he stood looking at his palm as if she’d evaporated into thin air. Which she very nearly did. Cecilia escaped through a door Loren hadn’t noticed before. “Blast it, Farcle, get her.”

Loren started forward—

“Lord Griston? What are you doing here?”

He spun around and found himself facing the formidable Irene dressed in a night rail as white as his cravat. “I’m here to see Miss—” He found himself floundering for the nursemaid’s name, but shifted, blocking her view into the bedroom behind him.

Her blank expression unnerved him. Winslow would scream down the house if he discovered a stranger in his midst, especially at such a late hour. “Miss Lambert? She’s not allowed visitors in her bedchamber, sir.”

Right, Miss Lambert.Loren crouched before her, noting irritably her hasty step back. He straightened to his full height and dusted a hand over his shoulder, working through his array of social tactics to break through her odd stoicism. “Your mother. She was in a carriage accident with Lord Brockway. I’m afraid they were hurt. Your mother is asking for you.”

To his utter surprise, her eyes pinned him with suspicion, not fear. “I believe you are trying to hoodwink me, sir.”

Loren needed to remove himself quickly but couldn’t help grinning. “How serious you are.”

Without answering, she began backing away, regarding him with her large, unreadable storm-gray eyes. Loren mimicked her step for step.

He gave her a wry smile, extremely cognizant of the passing time. “You’d best get your sister so we can be on our way, hmm?”

Irene spun around and ran for the stairs. Loren lurched forward and got her by the hand. She stopped and planted her feet, just as he’d witnessed from Cecilia moments before. But he was ready for her. He grabbed her small body off the floor, and before she could scream bloody murder, he whipped off his cravat and stuffed it in her mouth. He tossed her over her shoulder and retraced his path, all the while her fists beating futilely against his back.

Farcle stood outside the schoolroom. Empty-handed. He shook his head.

“Enough,” Loren hissed to his wriggly prize. “Or I shall kill you and make your sister watch.”

She went instantly still. He tossed her to Farcle and stepped inside the room. Two glass encased bookcases framed a large map that hung on the wall. The sparse furnishings included a large round table and an easel holding a black slate. Unfortunately, he saw no sign of the youngest Maudsley child.

Loren hurried across the room to a door. It opened into a comfortable, low-lit sitting area, and again, no Cecilia. Another couple of doors revealed their adjoining bedchambers. He searched beneath the beds and the wardrobes with no hint of the little bugger. He pulled the fob watch from his pocket then fought the hovering panic. Where the devil was she?

Loren scrapped his plans for locating Cecilia for the moment. Dealing with the overly observant elder sister took sudden precedence.

He met Farcle at the door, and they eased their way out the way they’d come. He took possession of Irene. “The window, Farcle. Quietly.”

“Right, my lord. I stashed a dark coverlet just inside the garden gate.”

“Excellent. I’ll meet you in the hack.” He stole away with no one the wiser. Except Cecilia, he reminded himself. He found the coverlet and tossed it over his shoulder to hide Irene’s night rail that glowed like frost in the moonlight. When he reached the carriage, he climbed in and tossed his bundle onto the seat across from him. She fought the coverings. By the time she emerged, her braided hair hung in tatters about her elfin face.

“You’re an unusual child, aren’t you? I have a son almost your age.”

His little captive remained still and as closed-mouthed as ever. The only reaction he could discern was a slight tightening of her jaw. Her hands remained gently clasped in her lap.

“Quite the sacrificial lamb, aren’t you?” How unnerving. Winslow was shy, but he couldn’t stand still for ten minutes. Loren pulled out his fob.

Minutes later the carriage rocked, and Farcle slipped inside. “There’s no sign of the younger girl, my lord. I went back and checked all the cupboards, the wardrobes, and beneath the beds.”

Panic riveted Loren by the throat. He jerked his cravat from Irene’s mouth, yanking her by the shoulders and shaking her small form until he thought her teeth rattled. “Where is she?” he growled.

Face white, eyes wide, and swallowing audibly, she appeared incapable of speech. Her head moved back and forth, no whisper of a sound emitting.

“Take her to Middleton. He won’t dare talk. I’ll have to come back for the sister,” he told Farcle. “This might even work to our advantage. What of the nursemaid?”

“Out cold, but still alive.”

Loren felt a shift in Irene’s tension. She was gathering her wits and her breath. Her mouth opened. He stuffed the neckcloth back in her mouth, stopping the scream that would sound from here to Timbuktu. He hit the ceiling of the cab, and it jerked into motion.

For the first time, his little prisoner’s fear turned palpable. She kicked out, one heel landing dangerously close to unmanning him. His temper flared, and he squeezed the breath from her. “Stop, you little hellcat,” he hissed. “Or you’ll end up with a broken rib. That will not be comfortable for your journey.”

A block or two out of the mews, Loren tapped the ceiling again, and the hack stopped. “Don’t fret, my dear. We mean you no harm.” Not personally, he amended silently. Securing the curtains, he turned the lamp to a low glow. Large tears pooled in her dark eyes. “You should eat something.” It would be her only meal for a long while. He didn’t like thinking of her hungry.

She shook her head, and the tears spilled over.

“Don’t let this one get away, Farcle. I’m counting on you.” Griston ducked out of the cab and pounded the side, sending it into motion once more.