The Marquess Who Loved Me (18 page)

The only way to heal a wound was to examine it, clean it, and keep treating it until no hint of infection remained. But Ellie, who was so good at examining others, couldn’t do the same to herself.

She hated herself for her cowardice. But there weren’t enough opiates or stimulants or lovers or parties in the world to make bearable the pain of really, truly
looking
at her feelings for Nick.

So she wouldn’t look. The infection would kill her someday. But if she looked, and found that she really still loved him, and he wouldn’t forgive her…

Ellie crumpled the paper and returned it to Lucia, who understood the dismissal implicit in the gesture. Her maid left as quietly as she’d entered. But Madeleine still stood next to her, and she wouldn’t be put off so easily. “Is anything amiss?” she asked.

Ellie turned resolutely toward the archers. Percy Pickett was up next. “Merely some estate business. You should watch Sir Percival shoot. You wouldn’t believe it from his attempts at poetry, but he’s quite the archer.”

Madeleine paused while Percy shot, but she used the stunned, raucous applause of the audience to cover her next words. “I hope you know that you’re welcome to stay at Rothwell House as long as you like. I don’t know what will happen between you and Lord Folkestone, but you will always have a home with us.”

If Ellie moved to Rothwell House, Madeleine would be so sisterly, so smothering in her generosity. Ferguson would try to protect her, even from herself.

Ellie wouldn’t last a fortnight without wanting to stab them both.

“Thank you, but there’s no need for that,” Ellie said. “I can manage quite well on my own.”

Madeleine paused. There was a strange quality to her silence, as though she was taking aim with just as much solemn consideration as Percy did for his second shot. When he let his arrow fly, she spoke. “That’s what I’m afraid of. You don’t have to manage this alone, you know.”

Ellie applauded Percy’s shot, not looking at her sister-in-law. “Don’t worry about me. I vow I’m not in trouble.”

Why didn’t Madeleine heed the warning in Ellie’s voice? Why, when she heard Madeleine draw a breath, did Ellie feel some swift, ugly kick of rage — the rage of a caged, brutalized animal, ready to bite the first hand that might offer it rescue?

But Madeleine had never seen the beast lurking in Ellie’s heart. “Ferguson and I saw you last night, quite late. I know it’s indelicate to mention, but you seemed upset.”

Upset
was such a small word for what she’d felt. She hadn’t gone directly to her room from her studio. She had wandered instead, through the disused rooms and darkened halls that she’d never wanted and yet now would miss tremendously. Only something like anger, or grief, or self-loathing, could have kept her from noticing her brother and his wife in whatever alcove they’d secreted themselves in.

Her lips curled over her teeth. “I thought I was clear that this isn’t a bacchanal, Duchess. You should have been abed.”

Madeleine’s shrug would have been at home at Versailles. “If the marquess evicts you and you can never host us here again, we’re keen to explore all its dark corners while we still have the chance. Was it Folkestone who made you so upset? Say the word and Ferguson will take care of it.”

“Will he?” Ellie asked. Her voice dropped and her eyes narrowed as she turned on Madeleine. “The way he took care of himself by abandoning me years ago? Or the way Father took care of Nick? Ferguson will turn into our father, I’m sure — he may as well start by threatening anyone who comes near me. Or will he take care of it by compromising Nick as he compromised you? That would be deucedly awkward, not to mention illegal.”

Through the dark, red-flecked tunnel that had become her vision, she saw Madeleine’s face turn from confused to hurt to furious. Sweet, perfect Madeleine and her sweet, perfect vision of love. Ellie wanted to keep going, keep slicing, until Madeleine left her alone. And then she would burn the house, flee for the Continent, and seek oblivion among people who didn’t know her and wouldn’t pity her.

But it wasn’t Madeleine’s fault that she was happy where Ellie was not. And Ellie had never lost control of herself like that before.

Ellie drew a deep, shuddering breath, raw and rasping, glad her anger had been covered by the crowd congratulating Percy on two perfect shots. “I apologize, your grace,” she said, when some of the red had faded to grey. “That was poorly done of me. I appreciate your offer, but I do not require help.”

Madeleine looked like she wanted to argue, but Ellie’s outburst had shattered her innocence. She sounded wary when she said, “Very well. Just…don’t forget we exist if you need us.”

That was like asking a soldier not to forget that other people were unharmed when he, in a moment of terrible luck, had lost a leg. Madeleine meant to be kind —
was
kind — but Ellie, in all her unfamiliar pain, couldn’t accept it.

Still, there was no sense insulting her again. So Ellie put on her best smile, nodded, and shifted the conversation to a discussion of which amusements to pursue that evening.

And while they talked, she breathed. She let the pain go with every exhale. She used every inhale to rebuild her shields. If she couldn’t heal her heart, she could at least ensure that no one — not her friends, not Nick, and certainly not herself — could touch it again.

Half an hour later, it was Ellie’s turn at the targets. Her guests would grow bored soon. She could read it in the way they had broken off into little groups, paying more attention to their own gossip than to those who chose to shoot. She could read the swirls and eddies in a social setting like an expert gamekeeper tracking his herds and flocks. And she was already prepared for the next phase of the afternoon. Even now, servants would be setting out a cold collation in the saloon downstairs — food and drink would keep her guests entertained, and not thinking of her, for another hour at least.

But as she picked up her bow, she sensed a different movement in the currents behind her. She didn’t turn around, but she heard the whispers. She nocked the arrow, pulled back, stared down the shaft, and released the string.

It struck the heart of the target. Her father hadn’t allowed hysterics, but it didn’t matter — she had always found more satisfaction in a perfectly-placed arrow than a crying fit.

She could have shot again, trying to match Percy’s record. But she heard a slow, loud clap add itself to the tumult of praise, and she wasn’t sure her nerves allowed for another attempt. She handed her weapon to the footman, a slender blond with pretty, even features who looked like Eros as he held the bow.

This wasn’t the time to think of painting her footmen. She turned back to her guests. But she only saw Nick. He stood slightly apart, near the door he had just entered, watching her with eyes that tracked over her skin like Greek fire. His hair was windblown and his cheeks were red with cold. But his voice was pure heat as he congratulated her.

“Tremendous shot, Lady Folkestone,” he said, in a voice that silenced the masses. “Odysseus himself couldn’t have done better.”

She blushed. She never blushed. But she saw him, again, in the painting she’d made of him, with Ellie as Circe and Nick as the man who waited to do her bidding. “You’re more of an Odysseus than I am, my lord — back from your wanderings and all that. Do you care to shoot? The rest of the party is just finished.”

He didn’t glance at any of them. “I’m no archer. It’s not a popular pastime in the East End.”

The silence turned uncomfortable. No one had mentioned his antecedents, at least not to her, but he wouldn’t let them forget it. Ellie smoothed it over with a little laugh. “Of course. We can always try another diversion. Have you a scheme to entertain us?”

“I always have a scheme for you, my lady.”

He sounded lightly flirtatious, in a way that made the women sigh. If he were always like this, the combination of his charm and his title would more than cover the sins of his background. He could melt all their hearts with little effort.

But there was nothing light or flirtatious about Nick’s face. His eyes locked onto hers. His grin turned devastating, the grin of a man who was supremely confident that he could take what he wanted.

It was easy for him to be confident. For the next few months, at least, he owned her. But perhaps he, like her, had realized an unfortunate truth in the darkness of her studio the previous night: he could have had her without spending forty thousand bloody pounds to force her.

That thought brought her up short and cut the mutual seduction they’d woven. “What shall it be, Lord Folkestone? Piquet? Whist?”

Her cool voice didn’t deter him. He held out his arm. “Take a turn in the garden with me, if your guests can spare you. There’s a bit of outdoor business we need to discuss.”

His tone, like hers, lost its flirtatious edge. She couldn’t say no — his request was odd, but her refusal would be odder still. She nodded once. “I will need to change if I am to be outside,” she said.

She had changed out of her comfortable morning dress for the archery and her white Grecian gown was no match for the snow. He nodded. “I shall await you in the entrance hall in half an hour.”

He left without waiting to see if she followed. She sent her guests on their way to the saloon, knowing that they would spend the afternoon dissecting whether “a turn in the garden” was code for something more nefarious, but there was nothing she could do to stop it — particularly when she didn’t know what Nick’s intentions were.

By the time she reached the foyer, clad in a thick walking dress, flannel petticoats, sturdy boots, and a fur-lined cloak, she was brimming with curiosity.
 

“Did you find something during your conversation with the tenants?” Ellie asked as Nick put on his hat. “Or is this about…something else?”

He slanted her a look that said he’d rather this were about their bargain, but he shook his head. “The tenants had nothing of value to report, and there isn’t time now for our…other activities. But there’s something I wish for you to sketch.”

He said nothing more as he led her down the hall to his study to retrieve a sketchpad, and then back past the dining room to the green baize door to the servants’ hall. She had been in their domain less than half a dozen times in her entire tenure as marchioness, but Nick walked through like he was well acquainted with the rooms.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To one of the outbuildings,” he said, steering her through the kitchen and around the massive spits where two boys turned the rods that roasted a score of pheasants over the fire. “We could have gone through the gardens, but it’s too cold for my blood.”

She didn’t complain. Even for someone who had stayed in England all her life, the weather wasn’t pleasant. But when they reached the servants’ entrance and found Marcus cooling his heels on a bench near the door, she came up short.

“You shouldn’t keep a traitor at your back when you’re looking for a killer,” she said to Nick. “Take care, or he may sell you out to someone else.”

Marcus winced. “Ellie, I am sorry. Again.”

She waved a hand. “Claibornes are always sorry. I should have known better than to trust you. You’re cut from the same cloth as all the rest.”

He had stood when she arrived, but rather than giving way, he leaned against the door and blocked their route. “Say what you will about me, but I did what I thought was best. You had more money and comfort these past ten years than your actual funds would have given you. Nick’s money kept you free to pursue your own passions rather than marrying someone else. And it seemed that Nick might never come home. You were the only thing I thought would lure him back. As it turns out, we should have hired people to try to kill him in India — it might have brought him back years ago and saved all of us some heartache.”

He grinned at her. The old Marcus was back — the one who had been her friend after he could see beyond the fact that she’d broken his brother’s heart.

She sighed. “That doesn’t make it right, you know. I don’t think I can forgive you for this.”

His smile died. “Seems that none of us can forgive each other.”

Nick intervened. “Can we discuss this somewhere else? Half the servants are listening to us.”

Ellie looked around to find more footmen, scullery maids, and chambermaids milling in the kitchens than were strictly necessary. She found her butler in the crowd and raised her brows. “Ashby, why aren’t you attending my guests in the saloon?”

He had the grace to blush. “Just retrieving wine for them, my lady.”

She knew the wine wasn’t kept in the kitchen, but she let the remark pass. Ashby was a good butler, but she couldn’t fault him for being concerned about Nick’s arrival. She couldn’t fault any of them. She had trained them to be loyal to her and her alone — she could guess that Nick’s return, and what it meant for them, were all any of them were talking about.

Nick gestured her toward the door and they walked out into the snow. Several sets of footprints had already stamped paths to the main outbuildings. The coal, lamp oil, and foodstuffs were all stored in the cellars, but the staff still needed to feed the horses, milk the cows, and stoke fires in the orangery and other succession houses to keep the plants from freezing. One outbuilding, though, had fewer footprints leading to it — and a stout lock on the door that she hadn’t noticed before.

Nick pulled a key from his pocket. But before he unlocked it, he turned to Ellie. “I should have prepared you better, but there was nothing I could say in front of the others. I brought the dead highwayman’s body back with us yesterday…”