Beauty in Black Page 18

  “Your kind regard is duly noted,” Gabriel pointed out, his tone dry. “Believe me, I feel just as you do. Unfortunately, civilized conduct, as well as a regard for our hostess’s feelings, require me to treat you with a semblance of courtesy. You may believe how fervently I wish it otherwise.”

  John grunted but did not trust himself to answer. Without waiting to see if the other man followed, he pulled open the door and stomped up the stairs to the sitting room.

  It was further infuriating to find McNair sitting close to Mrs. Hughes, making her laugh a little over some no-doubt clever anecdote. For an instant John hated all these men with easy ways who could charm their way through Society—who could make a woman smile. What good did new clothes do, when a man lacked grace and ease?

  His face must have revealed too much because there was a silence when he came into the room, and even Miss Crookshank, who had risen as if to cross to his side, hesitated.

  It was left to Mrs. Hughes, who had the unceasing courage of a warrior riding into battle, to come and speak quietly to him. “Is there anything I can do for you, my lord?”

  He should be angry at her, it was her misguided invitation that had forced him into another encounter with his wretched brother. He should have been, but somehow, gazing into her anxious blue-gray eyes, knowing that she was quite aware of his own agitation, he found that he could not turn his fury toward her. Some of the acridity that burned inside him eased a little, and as long as he could stand close to her, catching just a hint of her rose scent, observing the softness of her cheek and wishing he could touch it—

  One of the other guests spoke, and Mrs. Hughes had to turn. John walked away to gaze into the fire, as if he needed its warmth, when the reality was just the opposite. The anger that burned inside him was more than enough to fire his blood.

  But Gabriel had been conversing quietly with his wife, and now Lady Gabriel came forward to claim her hostess’s attention. “I hope you will forgive us, Marianne, but I find that I have a bit of a headache. I think we must make our farewells. Thank you for the delicious dinner and a delightful evening.”

  Delightful? John managed not to snort. He glanced back to see his brother bowing smoothly to Mrs. Hughes, and then in a moment, blessedly, they were gone.

  And since he had little hope of any private words with Mrs. Hughes, the only thing that might give him pleasure and ease the torment that raged within him, and as he really could not summon the resolution to make polite conversation to the group, John decided he should follow their example.

  He said good night with as much savoir faire as he could manage, and pretended not to see the disappointment in Miss Crookshank’s face. Mrs. Hughes’s expression was more difficult to read, but he thought her eyes reflected her worry.

  “I will call tomorrow,” he promised, and then he walked into the hall and accepted his hat and gloves from the footman. The hired barouche had been called and was waiting on the pavement. He climbed inside, able at last to scowl into the darkness without worrying about what anyone else would think of his rudeness.

  Gabriel could take his lovely wife home, could spend as much time as he wished with her . . . and John would go home alone, as always, with no one to greet him except his faithful Runt.

  The anger inside him, the aching loneliness—he seemed destined to endure it all his days. Even if he married—after he married—Miss Crookshank, would he ever know real contentment? John took a deep breath. He would bear his fate like a man and not succumb to self-pity. Gabriel had been blessed with the good looks and the charm, and John, who had never even before his illness had the ease in company of his engaging younger brother, had been struck down by the scourge which had left him a trial to look upon, disfigured for all time, the object of pity perhaps but not of love, hardly a fit match for any woman of taste and sensibility. And the self-loathing that lived inside him was even more toxic . . .

  The ride back to his quiet hotel seemed long, and the darkness teemed with ill spirits, with memories more potent than a ghost conjured out of a late night tale . . .

  When the carriage pulled up to the inn, John climbed out and sent the barouche on to the stables. He waved aside a servant who looked out of the main tap room and continued up the steps to his room.

  At least Runt rushed to greet him, jumping upon his clean stockings with slightly less than clean paws and barking in delight.

  “Down, girl,” John commanded, then bent to rub the little dog’s head. “Yes, I missed you, too. Come along, we’ll take a short walk before bedtime.”

  The dog had been confined for hours, and she padded happily down the staircase and out the door. John followed along the dark side of the street; at least traffic was infrequent at this time of night.

  He leaned against the side of the next building and waited for the dog to do her business; then they would go inside and he would have another glass of wine, maybe two—who cared if his head ached tomorrow. The pain inside him, contained so long as he had resigned himself to his fate, had been reawakened by the sight of his brother happily married, and even more by the tantalizing figure of Mrs. Hughes, whom he wanted—with body and soul—more every day, and yet whom he could not even court until he resolved his complicated entanglement with her ward. How could he jilt an innocent young lady? That would hardly endear him to her aunt.

  John shut his eyes for a moment, trying to push away the lowering thoughts that hung over him like a cloud of dark smoke. He heard his little dog bark sharply.

  “Stay here, Runt,” he commanded. “No chasing after stray cats at this time of the night.”

  Something moved in the shadows past the innyard wall, but it was too large to be a cat. John narrowed his eyes. He heard his dog growl and patter forward on the cobblestones. He strode after her, bending his head a little to call his spaniel back.

  He heard a whisper of movement and smelled just a hint of—

  Something crashed down against his head, and the darkness swirled around him.

  Ten

  “Yes, indeed,” Jamie McNair said. “That was most entertaining.”

  Marianne glared at him. After half her guests had departed, she had asked Louisa to play upon the pianoforte to amuse those remaining. Louisa agreed with her usual good spirit, and, seating herself at the instrument, ran her fingers along the keys and delivered a sprightly tune. Lord knew they could all use a lighter mood.

  But Marianne had a strong feeling that Jamie, who loved to create mischief, was not referring to Louisa’s musical accomplishment.

  “Take care,” she murmured to him as he sat in the next chair before she turned back to join in the applause. “Nicely done, Louisa! Play another, please.”

  “Perhaps a ballad?” Jamie began. “I know one about two brothers who fight to the death over an old feud—”

  Marianne cut him off without compunction. “Perhaps the new Handel air we bought at the shop last week? Or if Mr. McNair wishes a ballad, you must ask him to sing with you. He has a lovely tenor.”

  Jamie looked self-conscious. “Ah, as to that—”

  But Louisa smiled at the middle-aged man. “Yes, do, I should love someone to share the song.”

  Preening just a little, Jamie walked over to pick out a ballad from the sheet music spread before Louisa, and Marianne sighed in relief. Lord, what a night it had been. Why had she not warned the marquess about inviting his brother to dinner? It had seemed such a simple thing to do. But families were not always simple. Families could be complicated, families could tie one in knots like a tangled thread.

  Louisa and Jamie sang a duet, and Marianne tried to pay attention. Eventually the evening wound to a close, and the Denvers and Jamie both said good night.

  “Be sure to invite me again the next time you have the Sinclair brothers to dine,” Jamie told her, looking arch as he bent over her hand. “I do so love family quarrels—they’re so much more intense than the nonfamilial kind.”

  Marianne rapped his knuckles with her fan
. “You remember what I said about being discreet,” she warned.

  He chuckled and accepted his hat from the footman.

  When the door shut at last behind him, she made a rude face he could not see, although Masters looked startled. Feeling unusually weary, she climbed the steps. Louisa hurried after her.

  “Aunt Marianne, why was it so uneasy between the marquess and his brother? Lord Gillingham looked quite grim. I was not sure what to say to him.”

  “I wouldn’t say anything about his brother,” Marianne warned. “I don’t know what the problem is, but obviously there is some bad blood between them.”

  “Lord Gabriel is so handsome he takes one’s breath, but even though he talked with me during dinner, whenever I tried to ask about their childhood, he always changed the subject. He told me funny stories about his travels, but I wanted to hear about Lord Gillingham as a boy. Perhaps Lord Gabriel is not as charming as he seems. If there is a problem there, I’m sure it is not Lord Gillingham’s fault,” the girl insisted, loyal to her chosen swain.

  Marianne felt too weary to try to make sense of a puzzle of which they possessed so few of the pieces. She shrugged.

  “At least the marquess promised to come back tomorrow, did he not?” Louisa said as she paused at the doorway to her room.

  “Yes, he said he would take us to see the new exhibit of Italian paintings,” Marianne agreed, her spirits lifting at the thought. “Sleep well, Louisa.”

  “Oh, I will,” the girl agreed. “Thank you for planning the dinner party, dearest Aunt. You’re so good to me.” She gave her a quick hug.

  Louisa was a sweet girl, Marianne thought as she went into her own bedchamber. She deserved a good husband. But why did it have to be the marquess she had set her heart upon?

  With unnecessary force, Marianne pulled the pins out of her twist, pulling a few hairs painfully with them. Rubbing her abused scalp, she took a deep breath and allowed her maid to unbutton her dress.

  John opened his eyes to find his face pressed into a muddy patch of dirt which smelt unpleasantly of horses’ urine. Runt licked his cheek with wet sloppy enthusiasm.

  “Yes, yes, enough.” John pushed himself up. He felt groggy, and his head ached like the very devil. What—had he stumbled?

  No, memory came rushing back. There had been a blow, and he remembered his spaniel barking and growling with every ounce of her small body. There had been someone in the darkness, though he had not had the time to make out the form . . .

  His heart beating faster, John lurched upright. Someone had hit him. Was his attacker still here, still a danger?

  He had been foolish not to pay more heed to his surroundings. This was not his quiet secluded estate, but the outskirts of London, a city rife with criminals ready for any opportunity to prey upon the unwary. This was what he got for choosing a small inn in an out-of-the-way location. All his senses now alert, John looked around. But he heard nothing except a lone cart trundling along the street; otherwise, the street and the innyard seemed empty.

  He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the mud off his face. His fashionable new evening hat lay at his feet. John stooped, suppressing a groan as the movement made his bruised head spin. He straightened slowly, the hat in his hand battered past repair. The fashionable shop from which it had come would not claim its creation now. But the stiff hat had softened the blow for him, which was much more important.

  And Runt had played a part. He had a dim memory of the dog growling and snarling at the unknown assailant. John reached inside his jacket and patted his pockets, but nothing seemed to be missing. Had his small dog with her heroic mettle frightened away the would-be thief? John walked a few feet into the darkness and looked about him. Runt followed eagerly, pausing to sniff a scrap of thin cloth.

  Despite the vertigo his movement triggered, John picked it up. It felt wet and he smelt the tang of blood. Yes, Runt had sunk her teeth into someone’s leg.

  “Good girl,” he told her, hoping the thief ached as badly as John himself did. “Now, inside. We’ve had enough adventure for one night.”

  It was a fitting end to a bad evening, he thought. He walked back to the inn and considered reporting the incident, but there seemed little to be gained. The criminal was surely long gone, and John had no stomach to listen to long apologies and commiserations from his landlord.

  A glass of wine, a cold cloth for his aching head, a bath and bed, that was all he wanted. Or at least, that was what he could manage to obtain. What he wanted was a winsome woman with dark hair whose blue-gray eyes seemed to look inside his soul . . . but she was out of reach, at least for the time.

  He snapped his fingers at his dog and led Runt back to their chamber.

  The next day Lord Gillingham arrived at their door as promised. Louisa, who had been waiting all morning for him to appear, rushed up to the sitting room to tell her aunt.

  “He’s here,” she said, sounding a little breathless. “Come along, Aunt.”

  Marianne looked into the glass and adjusted her hat, then followed more sedately down the stairs. But although she might look serene enough on the outside, she could not keep a flush of happiness from surging through her.

  The marquess handed them into his hired barouche. He looked somewhat pale, she thought; she hoped it was not the result of the unpleasant evening.

  “Good morning, I hope you are well?” she said, meaning the question as more than just the usual pleasantry.

  “A slight headache,” he admitted. She thought that he winced a little as he adjusted his usual large-brimmed hat.

  “Should we postpone our outing?” she asked, concerned.

  Louisa’s eyes widened in protest, and Lord Gillingham shook his head. “No, I shall be fine,” he assured them. He called to the coachman, and the carriage pulled away and into the traffic.

  When they arrived at the exhibit hall, they were handed down by the groom. The hall itself was crowded, and Marianne hung back a little to allow Louisa and the marquess to talk as they joined the mass of people who all seemed called to meditate upon the beauty of Italian villages and rustic landscapes.

  The scenes were lovely, and gazing at them, Marianne felt the long-repressed pang of old dreams never fulfilled. As a girl, she had vowed to see Venice before she died, to contemplate the beauties of French valleys once the eternal war with Napoleon ended. She had longed to gaze upon the great pyramids and to explore China’s fabled wall. They were unlikely, perhaps even unseemly, dreams for a well-brought-up young lady, she knew. They were rarely spoken of because they would earn her the usual lecture from her mother. But like her quiet father, who pursued his reveries in his books, she longed for more than village teas or even fashionable London assemblies.

  Marianne allowed her thoughts to wander into the painted scenery, while for the next half hour Louisa smiled up at the tall man at her side, chatting about the scenes portrayed in oils and waterpaints and framed in carved gilt frames. The marquess nodded and answered politely. But presently Louisa spied a young woman she had met at Lady Sealey’s tea, and she paused to speak to her.

  Lord Gillingham fell back to stand closer to Marianne. “Shall we sit down for a moment?” he suggested.

  “Where?” Marianne asked practically.

  But the marquess took her arm and guided her to the side of the hall, and somehow procured two chairs for them, then caught the attention of a waiter and sent the man to bring them tea.

  “Does your head still ache?” she asked, a little worried about his lack of spirits.

  “It’s nothing,” he told her, his tone dry. “Perhaps a surfeit of artistic-looking peasants.”

  “I do wonder if they can be as happy as they sometimes appear in paint,” she agreed, laughing a little. “I suspect that rustic cottages are not quite so appealing as they often look here, dry and snug and framed in gilt.”

  “With no inconvenient rain to creep about the eaves,” he agreed. “Though my tenants have little to complain about with their
roofs, I promise you. I would see to their repair at once.”

  “I’m sure you would,” Marianne agreed. She felt he would be a responsible landlord. Beneath his sometimes brusque manner, which already seemed to be somewhat smoothed as he spent more time in company, she increasingly believed he had a kind heart. He was the kind of man one could depend upon when times were bad, and celebrate with when times were good.

  She thought for a moment of her late husband. During difficult times, poor Harry had shrugged and waited for others to act. Waited for Marianne to placate an angry creditor, when Harry had lost too much of his quarterly allowance at the gaming tables, left it to Marianne to discharge an inefficient servant. She had sometimes felt more like his mother or older sister than his wife.

  Marianne sighed. Since she’d left her own home to marry, left her patient, bookish father and efficient, bustling mother, she’d never been able to depend on a man to come to her aid. In the beginning, she’d been dismayed to find her husband so reluctant to take charge, so indecisive and so ready to shrug off any responsibility. But marriages were made for better or for worse, and she had scolded herself and put aside her disappointment, telling herself that real life was not the same as a fairy tale, that sagas of gallant knights who always rescued their ladies were only a poet’s invention. Those strong heroic men were the stuff of stories for young girls to dream about, not a pattern for real life.

  Yet, perhaps some part of her still wondered if a man could be both strong and kind, understanding and resolute.

  Lord Gillingham seemed a man one could count on, even if it were only for a cup of tea when one was thirsty, or an arm to lean on if the way were rough. And the way he made her feel when he touched her hand or took her arm—now, that was not in the least brotherly!

  “Thank you,” she said when the servant came with their tea, but it was the marquess she glanced toward.

  She had promised herself not to mention the difficult evening just past, but to her surprise, he was the one who brought up the subject.