The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler
Seven
L
oren let out a furious hiss. He wadded up the message and tossed it in the fire. Watching its transcendence to ash, little flakes curling up into the smoke, failed to change the words now ingrained in his head. God dammit, he didn’t need this now. Not with a houseful of guests beating a path to his door. There were too many balls in the air to juggle. Evelyn Holks was a problem that must be dealt with immediately. Blast it. He’d have to send Sid.
The door to his private sanctuary, his study, burst open against the wall behind it. “Loren, I insist you do something about those vile gypsies. They are back. I don’t care if our guests cannot see them. I will know they are there.”
“Not now, Mother. I’ve more pressing matters to deal with.” He barely kept from plowing his fist through the wall.
She stomped her foot. Actually stomped her foot.
Loren stilled, his fury a red fog temporarily blinding him. It should have been laughable. He turned slowly, piercing her with a lethal glare that had grown men pissing in their breeches. She, apparently, was immune.
She pointed at him, inches from his nose. “Deal with them, Loren. Now. I won’t have it. Who knows what those vagrants are capable of? They are liable to slit our throats in our sleep. I want them disposed of!” She spun on her slippered heels and scurried out, the slamming door, rattling the windows in her wake.
He let out a long breath, his rage simmering to aggravation. Another task for which he had no time. Lady Maudsley was due any moment, and he was determined to be there to greet her. He’d seen no sign of Brockway, but the man was a nuisance and clearly wanted her with an intensity that endangered Loren’s plans for the lady. So, keeping peace with his mother was more paramount than usual. He tugged the bellpull.
“Sir?”
“Farcle, get Sid and have the horses saddled. Among all things asinine,” he gritted out, “there’s a disturbance at the northeast edge of the property. Mother is demanding their immediate, and I quote, ‘disposal.’ I fear the Romani have returned. They are a trial, are they not? We shall take care of the issue once and for all. Prepare for the worst.”
A man of few words, Farcle nodded and slipped out. Loren strode to his bedchamber to change clothes. It was bound to be a dirty job. He threw on an unneeded overcoat and stashed a pistol in each pocket.
Fifteen minutes later, he, Sid, and Farcle stood in a copse of trees at the far most reaches of Griston lands where indeed an old Romani huddled beneath one of the large oaks the Griston lands were known for. Loren glanced about for the man’s encampment and spied it in the distance. The caravan was not technically on his property, but these gypsies had been warned before. Loren lifted one of the pistols and moved his horse forward. “What are you doing, old man?”
The man raised listless black eyes, clutching his chest in a white-fisted grip. He didn’t speak, and Loren’s hostility escalated to outright rage.
“Don’t you understand English, man? I demand to know what you are doing on my property.”
The old man’s lips in his age-lined face moved, saying nothing.
“You refuse to answer?”
Still nothing, just blinked where Loren swore he could see the swirling depths of his soul.
Loren jerked his own head away. “Sid, string up a rope.”
The gypsy gasped, drawing Loren’s glare. The man’s fear stirred a sharp, deep, insatiable tide through Loren. He had no tolerance for beggars or miscreants like the rat who’d accosted Lady Cecilia. Sid slid off his horse and slipped a noose about the old man’s neck and jerked. Leaves stirred in a sudden breeze, their whispers on the wind forming the strangest cacophony of words.
Prin puterea binecuvântată a Sfintei Sara la Kali
Din această zi încoace, și dincolo de vârste,
Pe luna celui de-al 7-lea fiu
Eliminați-vă sufletul cu trei și treizeci
Nebunia vei cădea, restul vieții tale lungi și naturale.
Ascultă-mă pe tine, după cum jurăm,
Numai sânge amestecat de al meu și de tine
Să-ți elibereze sufletul înnegrit.
The old man’s mouth never moved.
A chilling shudder raced from the base of Loren’s skull down the length of his spine. Impossible. Yet the words repeated over and over were an evocative chant that Loren feared would give him nightmares. What could they mean?
Who the devil cared, he demanded in a silent fury. He signaled to Sid with a sharp nod.
It seemed hours before the codger hung from the branch like a limp rag. Loren shook off the morbid trepidation, stuffing the pistol back in his pocket, though a dull throb beat at his upper back and a chill raised on his goose-prickled skin. “Get rid of him and chase the others away. Don’t dawdle, Sid. There’s a crisis of a different matter brewing.”
He didn’t mention the note he’d just burned; that would have to wait. Just another ball of many he was forced to manage. He spurred his horse in a gallop.
He was desperate to see Lady Maudsley. It was ironic how the woman was his saving grace, though she had no inkling. He flew across the rolling English countryside, the trees rattling with those strange discordant words, until he reached the outer boundaries of the inner gardens.
From there, Loren watched the carriages pulling in on the cobbled drive. Servants scurried forward from the portico, gathering luggage while grooms assisted smartly attired men and women.
The influx of arrivals narrowed to one, easing the band strangulating Loren’s chest. The familiar shield of blue and gold topped with a crown glinted in the afternoon sun, showing that the Kimpton carriage had indeed arrived. Satisfaction mingled with relief roiled through Loren. Donning his most gracious host’s mask, he urged his mount forward in a trot.
Two riders raced down the drive, reaching the carriage before Loren. “Bugger it all.”
The day couldn’t have taken a worse turn.
“Calm yourself, Brockway.” Kimpton’s amusement set Brock further on edge. “We are within a stone’s throw. Ah, look.” He pointed to the Kimpton carriage now drawing to a stop in the lengthy drive. “I’ll be damned,” Kimpton said softly.
All Brock’s senses went on alert. “What?”
“I believe the new Lord Maudsley is finally making his debut to society.”
“Yes. Yes. He made an appearance at Maudsley House a couple of days ago.”
Kimpton’s features stilled. “Is that so?”
Brock knew something of the Maudsley heir, knew he’d been in India the past few years, knew he’d been a part of the underground club known as the Athenaeum Order to which Edward Ninnis had also belonged. It was a disturbing coincidence. Brock hadn’t wanted to believe such a club actually existed, but in light of the late Maudsley’s kidnapping of Irene and Lady Kimpton from Kimpton’s town home the year before, he feared the Order was very much alive.
He narrowed his eyes on the man’s lace cuffs. “Yes. As I understand it, he just returned home from a long stint in India.” Grimacing, Brock set his horse into a canter. He slid off his horse before coming to a complete stop, reaching the cab door before the nearest footman. By the time Kimpton had dismounted and sauntered over, Brock was assisting Lady Kimpton down. Pleasure lighted her features at spotting her husband.
Blinding envy stabbed Brock. He would suffer any punishment at Ginny’s hand to have her look at him that way again. Next came Lady Kimpton’s maid. Then Ginny’s maid. A good sign.
Brock waited… and waited. Ginny still hadn’t emerged. “Lady Maudsley?” He glanced over to Lady Kimpton with a raised brow. She had no interest in answering his unasked question; she was preening too much under her husband’s undivided attention. He poked his head inside and almost collided with her, knocking her perky little hat askew. “Ginny?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Move, you lummox.” she hissed.
The exhilaration rushing his veins was not a surprise. It was the appeasement stealing through him at seeing her that took him aback. “Come.” He held out his hand, knowing she had no option but to accept his assistance. The familiar pressing need to make Ginny understand she belonged to him manacled his heart. Not only had he arrived, but he had every intention of staying put.
By the time they returned to London, he would have her admitting outright that their past belonged to their past. He’d confess his egregious error in having deserted her. And never desert her again. Her kisses belonged to him. Her body belonged to him. Her children would belong to him. Letting a pup like Griston or the new earl of Maudsley take up with her would only happen over his dead body. “I’m here to escort you inside, my dear. Come,” he said. “You’re holding up the other carriages.”
Her unladylike snort had him biting back a grin. “Oh, for heavens—” He followed her gaze to Kimpton and his lady already disappearing through the front door. “I see.” Left with no choice, she took his hand. Her grip, warm and strong, gratified him. The instant her feet touched the ground, she pulled her hands away, smoothing them over her midnight-blue traveling dress. Almost as if she were wiping away his touch, he thought grimly.
The new earl sauntered up, bending in a shallow bow. “Lady Maudsley, how nice to see you again.”
“Good afternoon, my lord.” Her gracious smile punctured Brock’s skin with green pricks.
Brock shot her a glare, but she avoided him. Still, he carefully tucked her left hand into his arm, mindful of the fragileness of her wrist. He’d seen the damage firsthand, overseen the slow, tortuous healing process she’d undergone.
Maudsley turned to him. “Brockway, good to see you again, sir.”
Brock cleared his expression before meeting his eyes. He tipped his head in the earl’s direction, not bothering to respond. A lock of his light hair fell over one brow. Brock couldn’t decide if his poetical look was by design or an accident of fate. His free hand squeezed into a fist he hid at his lower back. Ginny’s hold on his arm tightened.
The instinct to protect again swept through him. He hadn’t liked the old Maudsley and damn sure didn’t like the new one. Carefully maintaining his benign facade, Brock ushered her past the up and coming dandy, desperate to remove her from his sights. Fat lot of good that did. The earl planted himself on Ginny’s far side and accompanied them to the portico.
“Lady Maudsley”—he gave a stilted laugh—“seems odd sharing a name with my late cousin’s wife.” He glanced past Ginny into the carriage. “I thought Lady Harlowe might have accompanied you and Lady Kimpton.”
To Ginny’s credit, she smiled but remained silent. Brock barely constrained his cheer at her fortitude, though he noted the high color in her cheeks.
“Er, well, um,” the earl went on. “In any event, I still require your audience.”
Brock opened his mouth, but Ginny pulled them up short. “Sir, if you are here to boot me from the town home, ’tis your right. I don’t require anything but perhaps a fortnight to vacate.”
The earl’s face flushed a deep, unbecoming red. “Oh, no, my lady. You mistake my intentions. I only wish to reassure your welcome. I’ve one last journey before taking up my duties as the new earl. My ship is due to sail in a week’s time.”
“Why didn’t you just say that before?” she demanded.
Brock winced at her strident tone. Subtle she was not. The stress in Brock’s shoulders lightened as he settled back for the unexpected fireworks he suspected would give Vauxhall a run.
“You had visitors, my lady.” To his credit, Maudsley kept his head. “I didn’t wish to place you under undo speculation…” Maudsley’s words trailed off, and the silence grew awkward.
Brock took undo pleasure in the man’s discomfiture. Yes, it was bad of him, completely inappropriate, and yet—Brock let out a sigh and then did take pity on the man. “Ginny, quit putting the man on the defensive. Forgive her, Maudsley. She is only just coming out of mourning.”
Her bristle of indignation arced across the air in a current he was certain could fry his skin. Something akin to being under a desert sun with no water.
“Of course. Of course.” They’d reached the portico. “My lady. All I wish to say is that you are welcome to stay at the Maudsley house in town for as long as you need. There is no rush to vacate.”
“Er, thank you, sir.”
Maudsley disappeared inside, leaving Brock standing there with Ginny’s hand on his arm. “Will you take a turn with me before—”
She dropped his arm. “Why? Why should I?”
“To talk. We should talk. Regarding your, er, plans regarding Irene and Cecilia.” He took her hand and placed it back on his arm, and again the finite sense swept him that this was where she belonged. Her hand on his forearm tensed. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
He drew her to a stop. “What is it, then?”
Outrage vibrated from her before air whooshed from her body and fear filled her expression. She dropped his arm and dug through her reticule. He pressed a stark white handkerchief in her hand. “I’ve absolutely terrified them.” She dabbed her eyes then dropped her face into her gloved palms. “We walked to the park with Lord Griston and a boy…” She took a deep breath. “A boy accosted Celia—”
“What!” A black icy rage—fear—shot through him with the force of a cannonball.
She rubbed her arms, despite the long sleeves of her traveling gown and the warmth of the beautiful summer day. “Sh-she’s fine.”
Brock attempted to rein in the foreboding asphyxiating him.
Her full plump lips turned down. “On the upside, the girls were most compliant when I mentioned your willingness to assist me.”
His chin fell to his chest, the tightening within let loose. “I see.” A gratifying revolution, he thought. God, how he wished to carry her away from this place. Away from everyone, everything. But people talked, and she was only just out of mourning. He started to reach for her, but his hesitance cost him the opportunity. The door swung wide, and the butler was there to usher them in. Brock followed Ginny into Griston’s grandiose foyer, where black-and-white marble floors presented a striking contrast to the carved banister rising on either side of the vast hall.
“Lady Maudsley and his lordship, the Marquis of Brockway, my lady,” Kimpton said, snagging Brock’s attention. “The dowager Lady Griston.”
“My lady.” Brock bowed over a pudgy proffered hand. Griston’s mother was a small woman, meaning short. And round. Very round. Griston had apparently procured his looks from his paternal side. He and his mother, however, shared the same dark, cold brown eyes. Hers were close together giving her a beady, garish look. A harridan. Mid-fifties, he’d guess.
The dowager turned to Ginny with an assessing gaze that set Brock’s teeth on edge. Clearly, Griston had aired his intentions for Ginny to his mother. “Lady Maudsley,” she murmured.
Griston strode in from a door to their right, his dark hair windblown, his black hessians dusty. Once pressed and starched, he would have a look that rivaled Byron’s poetical set from a few years ago. The high forehead, the straight nose, the pouty mouth. Brock searched his memory and couldn’t place rumors that Griston frequented gaming hells or risked ridiculous amounts of money. In his own hall, he appeared cool and controlled, barring a disturbing depth in his eyes that Brock found unsettling.
“Lady Maudsley, how good of you to grace us with your presence.” The company parted, and he took up her hand, forcing Brock’s clenched fist to his side when the inclination was to swing hard. And wild. Griston turned to his other guests. “Kimpton, Lady Kimpton. How lovely to see you. My apologies for my appearance, I’ve just returned from dealing with a property nuisance.”
Ginny gave him a beaming smile. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“All has been resolved.” He glanced at his mother. “I don’t anticipate further disturbances.”
Brock’s gaze moved between the two, their unspoken communication speaking volumes. It sent a sharp prickling between his shoulders.
“Excellent.” Lady Griston spun about and snapped her fingers. “Travers, please have our guests shown to their chambers. Place Lady Maudsley in the Lilac Chamber.” Griston’s gaze flashed, but his mother ignored him, turning back to the four of them, the barest glimpse dashing past Ginny. Lady Griston’s regard seemed to have gathered an icy chill.
How curious. And fortunate for Brock. He could stand the advantage. The woman might be a beastly snob, but he’d kiss her pudgy hand again in thanks if offered.
Brock crowded Ginny in a fit of his younger rebellious self. No one would slight Virginia Wimbley, not while he had a breath in his body. Ginny tensed beside him, but her head remained high. From a side angle, he noted the strain in her smile, her jaw tightened, her fingers clasped tightly.
She’d recognized the woman’s rebuff.
Brock cast Lady Griston a sardonic grin, fully aware of the building storm. He didn’t care. Ginny had paid a terrible price for Brock’s mishap of years’ past, and he meant to right it, whatever the cost.
There was an upside, he found, in watching Griston study his mother beneath a hooded gaze. He was furious, Brock realized. Regardless, the man observed etiquette, inclining his head to the group. “I shall see you all for drinks in the parlor at seven. If you’ll excuse me, I must change,” he said with a smooth smile. “Until later.”
The housekeeper led the group of bystanders up the stairs, and Loren snagged his mother by the arm before she could escape, tugging her into his study off the entry hall before the pain slicing through his head drove him to his knees. “I thought I told you Lady Maudsley was to have the chamber nearest the stairs.” He wanted nothing questioning her suitability as his wife.
“Darling, whatever has gotten into you? That room is much too small and secluded for your future Countess.” Her coyness was too sly to be considered innocent.
A tap sounded at the door. “What is it, Travers?”
“A message, sir.”
Loren snapped it open, and his heart almost stopped as spots danced across his vision. He glanced at his mother. “We’ll discuss this later. Don’t try my patience, Mother. I’m warning you. I want Lady Maudsley, and you’ll not stand in my way. You’re dismissed.” Her eyes widened in outrage, but she left, shutting the door softly, and wisely so, in his estimation. Loren scanned the message again. Thankfully, he hadn’t yet changed clothes.
He raced up the stairs and tugged the bell. Seconds later Travers poked his head in. “Where’s Farcle?” he snapped.
“I’m not certain, my lord. I haven’t seen him since you returned from your earlier errand.”
Right, the gypsy. Loren let out a frustrated sigh. “I should tend to my guests.”
“Yes, my lord.”
