What the Marquess Sees (24 page)

“That’s exactly one of the reasons I didn’t want to tell you. It was safer for her to remain in hiding.”

Dansbury shook his head. “I might understand that as my boss. But as my friend? As my brother by choice? How could you deny me that option? Besides, why should it have mattered once my family was gone?”

“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I chose poorly. But I cannot undo that now. Right or wrong, it was a decision I made. And I admit that in hindsight, knowing what I know now and because of the man I’ve become thanks to my wife, I would have made a different choice had I been the same man then. But I cannot undo it, and though it pains me, I do have to live with the consequences of my actions.”

“We both do.”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to find her.”

“I’ll help you.”

Dansbury stopped his aimless pacing and looked up at Ambrose then. Surprised. Ambrose had always been a man to follow the rules to the letter. This. All of it. Was bending the rules a bit.

Though he was still angry, he offered Ambrose a small smile. “Thanks.”

Stonebridge smiled in return, briefly. But then his look turned serious. The hair on Dansbury’s arm stood on end in warning.

“There’s more…”

“Tell me.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Enter,” he called out. The staff knew he was not to be disturbed while he spoke with Stonebridge unless it was important.

“My lord, this was just delivered for you. The footman said it was urgent.”

“Thank you. That will be all.”

Dansbury tore open the oddly shaped letter. It was clunky for there was an object inside the envelope besides the note, which read:

Dansbury,

Midnight. The abandoned mill. Bring Lady Beatryce.

The note wasn’t signed, but enclosed was another toy soldier.

So, that cloaked bastard wanted to meet? Could this be the end? Finally?

He handed the note to Stonebridge to read while he resumed pacing, lost in thought.

Stonebridge moved across the room to toss the missive into the fireplace. “What do you intend to do?”

“I’ll meet him, of course.”

“And Lady Beatryce?”

“She’ll go.”

“Cliff, you cannot possibly think to actually take her?”

“Of course I can. She can handle it. I have faith in that, at least.”

The look that came across Stonebridge’s face was comical. Ambrose looked at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted two heads. Admittedly, it was probably odd to see him saying something positive about Lady Beatryce, of all people.

“I suspect we have more to talk about than I realized.”

“No. We don’t. Talk about Lady Beatryce is off limits with you.”

Ambrose raised that infernal brow. Again. He thought of sneaking into the man’s room tonight to pluck the hairs of his brow out. Then he wouldn’t have to see it lift in query all the time. It must drive Grace mad at times.

“Now. Let’s get back to what you were about to tell me before the interruption.”

Ambrose dropped his hands to his sides and stood taller, his fists clenched. “Your brother, Edward, is alive.”

* * * *

Grace Stonebridge’s Guest Room at Bloomfield House…

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Come in.” came a muffled voice through the bedroom door.

Beatryce took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and entered Grace’s room. Grace, who was sitting in a chair by the fire, stood upon her entry.

“Beatryce.”

“Grace.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke another word. Beatryce clasped her hands together, and entered the room. Her hands were clammy with her anxious nerves; she wiped them on her dress. “Thank you for seeing me.” As if she’d given Grace much of a choice. “Um. How was your trip?”

Ugh. She was a coward, after all. Beating around the bush like that.

Hadn’t she always thought she was strong? Hadn’t Aunt Harriett just proclaimed it so only yesterday? Right now she didn’t feel it at all.

“Fine. Thank you.” Grace crossed her arms and raised her brow—something Stonebridge often did that had always irritated Bea to no end. Grace must have picked up his bad habit. Beatryce offered up a thankful prayer that she’d been spared having to see it day after day for the rest of her life.

“Beatryce,” Grace continued. “I assume you’re not here to talk about the weather and my trip. Is there some purpose to this visit?”

Beatryce smiled at her cousin. The woman was still kind, but stronger than she’d been. Marriage to Stonebridge clearly agreed with her.

“Right. Yes. I—uh—I just wanted to apologize. For my behavior toward you. I was unkind to you. Many times. And for that, I am sorry. Truly sorry.”

“I see.”

“Yes, well.”

They both stood in uncomfortable silence. For once, Bea did not know what to say.

Beatryce could see the struggle on Grace’s face, the woman never could hide her thoughts and feelings. Clearly, Grace wanted to know more. To understand why, but manners dictated she not press Beatryce for more than she was willing to reveal.

Bea supposed she did owe Grace more than a simple apology. “I don’t know if you ever realized, or ever witnessed, the lengths my father would go to have his way.”

Grace nodded her head. “I witnessed what I am sure is a mild taste of what he was capable.”

Beatryce could tell that Grace empathized with her predicament. Grace truly was a compassionate woman; it made Beatryce’s actions toward her that much more difficult to bear.

“You have no true idea, and I wouldn’t dream of describing to you, a relative innocent, the depths of his depravity. Suffice it to say, he was a very bad man.

“I also don’t say all of this in an attempt to earn your pity or your compassion. I just…I just wanted you to know that my actions were born out of desperation. I realize that it doesn’t excuse my behavior, but I just thought you should understand why…to a point. And to know that it was nothing personal and that I am sorry for my part in trying to keep you and Stonebridge apart for my own gain. It is clear that you two suit.”

Grace smiled then, and leaned forward to grab Beatryce’s hands, which she had been twisting together in the folds of her skirt. “Oh Beatryce, think no further of it.”

Then, Grace did something most unexpected, she pulled Beatryce into a welcoming hug. “I’m glad you are here…cousin.”

Beatryce hesitated, but only for a moment. Then, she returned Grace’s hug without reservation. And fought to hold back more of those infernal tears.

“The course of true love never did run smooth; But either it was different in blood―”

―Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

The Bloomfield Stables…

Near Midnight…

“Trousers, Lady Beatryce?”

“Trousers, Lord Dansbury.”

Dansbury smiled with approval, while inside he was a raving lunatic. A candidate for Bedlam without question. The trousers she’d found must have been made for a ten-year-old boy; they hugged her curves like a glove. It left nothing to the imagination. And she looked nothing at all like a boy. He wanted to take her against the wall. He wanted to hide her from the eyes of every other male around. It was barbaric, the unwanted feelings that churned inside. And it worked to keep his mind from dwelling on all of the revelations he’d learned over the past two days.

He swallowed his animalistic impulses and reined in his runaway thoughts. “So where did you find your, um, trousers, Bea?”

She sat taller in her saddle. “I commandeered them from a young footman.”

“How…”

“I didn’t have sex with him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He hadn’t been thinking it…well, perhaps a wee bit. Jealousy was a dangerous thing; it wreaked havoc on a man’s common sense. But she also didn’t have any coin…

“I admit I might have employed a heavy amount of flirtation in order to obtain them. I don’t have any coin to my name. But these…” She ran her hand along her thighs and he squirmed in his saddle, suddenly overheated “…they were necessary.” She looked at him and lifted her chin, daring him to question her methods.

He wasn’t that much of a fool.

“Just for my curiosity’s sake: Why trousers, Lady Beatryce?”

“La, that’s easy. They’re for just in case we need to make a fast getaway.”

It was a practical plan; he’d give her that, but her acknowledgement of their danger made him want to demand she go back inside and lock the door. He wouldn’t say it, of course. He was smarter than that. He knew women.

He knew this woman.

“Fine. Do you have a weapon?”

“More than one, in fact.”

He looked at her a moment and debated asking her if she knew how to use them. But he relished keeping his privates in place should she take offense. And she would take offense. Instead he just smiled, and said, “Well, then. Let’s see what our madman has to say, shall we?”

Dansbury and Beatryce left the Bloomfield Stables on horseback at eleven-thirty for their rendezvous with a madman. For safety, it would take half an hour to pick their way in the dark for they had to travel over open fields, riddled with rabbit holes and uneven terrain, to reach the abandoned mill. The night air was crisp and cool, but bright from a full moon. Perfect weather to face a lunatic. For surely that is what they faced. Deadly, sure. But a bedlamite nonetheless.

They travelled in silence, too caught up in their own minds to speak. This was it. He hoped to God this was where it all ended. He was ready for…well, he didn’t know for what, but he was finished with running from this man. The seriousness of their impending confrontation helped him to focus his thoughts on how this would all play out, rather than on things that could not be controlled…such as the past.

The mill came into view right at the stroke of midnight.

They rode up to a split-rail fence jutting out from one side of the mill. Dansbury dismounted and turned to help Bea, but she had already jumped down on her own. Of course.

As they tied up their mounts to the fence, he smiled at her over the nose of his horse. She glanced up briefly, smiled, and continued on with her task.

Damn, she was magnificent.

“It’s nice to see you are prompt at least. Step into the moonlight so I might get a better look at the pair of you,” came a disembodied voice from within the open entryway to the mill.

Dansbury grabbed Bea’s hand as they walked over and stepped into a pool of light.

“Awww…isn’t that sweet. Holding hands. Is it true love, then?”

Dansbury gritted his teeth in anger. Beatryce inexplicably stiffened next to him. He could sense an immediate change in her. He dared to look. He could see her eyes open wide, paralyzed with fear. The sight worried him. This was not her, his strong, courageous Bea.

“Bea?”

“Well, well. Do I detect a hint of recognition coming from the lovely Lady Beatryce?”

The man stepped out of the shadowy doorway to stand in front of them, his ever-present hood and cloak in place.

“You know who I am, don’t you, Lady Beatryce? You recognize the sound of my voice, don’t you?”

“Show your face, then, you bastard,” Dansbury interrupted, dragging the man’s attention to him.

Dansbury could barely contain his fury. This man dared to cower behind a hood and taunt her. At least she stood there, open and exposed. Three times braver than this coward.

The man pulled off the hood. Beatryce let out a loud gasp.

Had Dansbury not been forewarned by Stonebridge, he might have fallen to his knees in shock. It was all still somewhat unbelievable.

“Edward?”

“Ah, good. I see you recognize your own brother then. How fun.”

Fun? He’d hardly call this fun.

“And I can see you remember me, too, Lady Beatryce. My but you have grown since you were a child of fourteen. Still cool and aloof…and unresponsive, I see. Pity. I guess my brother has not been unsuccessful in training you in the sensual arts. Perhaps I should have another go at it?”

Without warning, Dansbury charged. His brother’s implications all but erasing sound reasoning.

But his brother was not without some skill, despite his apparent madness. Before Dansbury could tackle him to the ground, his brother sidestepped and drew a sword from a scabbard on his back.

Dansbury caught himself and twisted around. He crouched low now and faced his enemy. His own brother.

“Tsk. Tsk. Brother. Allowing your emotions to control your actions? I judged you better than that. Besides, I doubt she is worth it.”

This time, Dansbury held his temper in check. Ironically, his brother was right about one thing. Dansbury knew better than to attack in anger.

“I’m not sure it’s sporting of me to combat you when I am armed, while you are not,” said Edward. He shook his head. “Pity, I’m not a sporting man.”

Edward lunged, but Dansbury was quick, and evaded his slashing blade with ease. They faced off again and circled around each other. Edward slashed his blade through the air in a threatening manner. Showing off. Wasting energy unnecessarily.

Dansbury knew if he could get Edward maneuvered into just the right position, he could disarm the man with ease. It was a matter of timing.

“I bet you are wondering how it is I am here. Aren’t you curious, brother?”

Dansbury refused to respond to Edward’s taunts.

The man continued anyway. “Father was prepared to turn the members of the Society over to the Crown, you see. Like the coward he was. And we couldn’t have that, now could we?”

Dansbury did not like where this was headed.

His brother grinned, pleased with himself. “I’m sure you can see where this is going. I, your ingenious brother, planned it all out, you see. Mother and Father’s demise. Made their deaths look like an accident. Faked my own, too, of course. It was perfect, but then I had to go into hiding, you see. And you, my oh-so-charming younger brother, got everything that was rightfully mine. Mine! Don’t you see? It is not yours to have. I didn’t die.”

Years of training allowed Dansbury to keep his emotions in check—this time, despite how painful his brother’s admissions were. Despite the earlier momentary loss of his head when Edward had taunted Bea. Apparently, she gave him strength and weakened him, both at the same time.