The Marquess Who Loved Me

Chapter THIRTY-ONE


Ellie painted all day. A maid brought a tray for her sometime in the afternoon, after she had shamelessly ignored her guests — she would rather give them reason to gossip than waste a precious hour of daylight.

But while it was likely easier that she had not seen Nick, she couldn’t help but wonder what he would say when they were alone again. When she finally descended to the drawing room at six o’clock, after dressing in a lush green evening gown, Nick still hadn’t appeared.

Most of her guests were present, though. They were eating an hour earlier than usual to make way for the larger entertainment Ellie had planned. She always included the villagers and tenants in an event during her house parties, and the neighborhood would be celebrating in the village that night with ale and other refreshments. Her aristocratic guests would proceed to the village for fireworks at nine — late for the farmers and shopkeepers, but early enough that her chef was likely still cursing her plans.

After scanning the drawing room in search of Nick, her eyes found Christabel instead. Her former sister-in-law stood apart from the group, looking handsome but slightly stunned in a pale blue muslin gown that gave her figure a softer, more feminine look than the outgrown pinafore she’d worn at home. Ellie joined her immediately. “I am delighted you decided to come, Lady Christabel,” she said, kissing her cheek.

Christabel didn’t look delighted. She looked equal parts determined and terrified. “Thank you, Lady Folkestone. And thank you for the loan of a dress. I haven’t seen this many people from the ton since your wedding — I hadn’t realized how out of step with fashion I had become.”

Ellie had whispered the offer of a dress at the dower house in an attempt to win her over into coming. She was glad it had worked — but she hadn’t realized just how isolated Christabel had been. “Did your sisters never bring you to London for a season? I admit, my circle didn’t include debutantes often enough for me to notice, but I assumed they would see you settled properly.”

Christabel’s lips compressed. “They grew too busy with their own lives, and all too happy that I was in the country watching over Mother.”

Ellie could fix this. She could take Christabel under her wing. She was little different from all the other people Ellie had rescued — and her vague sense of guilt over Christabel’s abandonment added to her determination. She opened her mouth, ready to offer it…

But then Nick walked through the door.

He looked disheveled, somehow, despite his perfectly tied cravat and impeccable evening suit. But even the best valet couldn’t prevent a man from shoving his hand through his hair too many times. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. The corners of his mouth turned down with the weight of the thoughts he carried.

Did he want her? Or was he considering how to say goodbye to her?

* * *

He was a coward. He should have sought her out. He should have told her what he felt. But how could he tell her when even he didn’t know for sure?

So he’d avoided her during the day — not a difficult task, as it turned out, since he heard from one of the footmen that she was in her studio throughout the daylight hours. And at dinner, they were seated at opposite ends of the vast table, with forty or so people and more than that number of dishes spread between them.

But there was something different about her. He could barely see her through the candelabras and epergnes and other interfering decorations, but when he did catch a glimpse of her, she seemed to glow. It couldn’t be with happiness. She was too distracted for happiness. But her occasional smile seemed meant for herself, not for either of the guests next to her.

It was a mystery he wanted the answer to. The answer had to wait. Dinner ended. The company dispersed to gather cloaks and hats for the ride into the village. He thought about avoiding the festivities, but Norbury was the only guest who had declined, after claiming he’d caught a chill. Nick would rather keep Ellie in his sights than spend an hour with his least favorite houseguest.

But Ellie slipped away from him, choosing to share a carriage with Lady Christabel and Percy Pickett. Perhaps it was for the best. Whatever he decided to confess to her, he didn’t want an audience for it.

They reached the village just in time for the fireworks. The Folkestone village was a trim, neat little cluster of shops and houses with an open green in the middle. A church flanked one side of it, but he was more familiar with the pub on the other side of the rectangle. If he planned to stay in England, Nick would need to learn more about the town, the tenants, and everyone else in the neighborhood. He would have to put down roots in soil that he’d always assumed would reject him.

But the villagers who bowed and curtseyed to him seemed genuinely pleased that he was there. And for the first time, Nick thought that perhaps spending parts of his year here, rather than in a warehouse or counting room, might be a worthwhile endeavor.

He found Ellie as the first firework shot up into the sky. She was buried deep in the heart of the group, but she stood out for him under the sparkling shower of light. She still had that glow, the one that made him want to learn her secrets.

She had looked almost the same at Vauxhall a decade ago — lit up under fireworks, not knowing that he watched her from the shadows. But on that night, she had been astonished and delighted by everything around her. Now, fireworks were something she could have whenever she wished. She yawned slightly, stifling it with a gloved hand, and looked out over the crowd rather than up at the sky.

He was sad, suddenly, that neither of them seemed to enjoy such simple things as fireworks, or dancing, or a perfect bit of moonlight. But if some fairy came and gave him a choice, he would stay in this moment, not return to that one. She’d been more easily delighted in that life — but she was more certain in this one.

He was old enough now to see the value in certainty. And it didn’t hurt that her father was dead in this life and couldn’t run Nick off like he had at Vauxhall. Nick strolled up to her, but she didn’t tense when he greeted her — if anything, she relaxed.

“So you’re not avoiding me after all?” she murmured.

He could barely hear her voice under the excited chatter around them. He leaned in to her ear. “No more than you are avoiding me.”

She looked up at him. Another firework lit the sky, and her blue eyes were eerie under the sparks. “You said we would talk today. Should I expect a note tonight, or have you changed your mind?”

He scanned her face, but he couldn’t read what she wanted of the conversation. Did she want a farewell? Or a future?

Before he could respond, he heard a crack of exploding gunpowder. There should have been a firework immediately after it, but the expected display never came.

His hackles rose. Gunpowder without a firework could only mean a gunshot, unless someone had brought firecrackers or one of the fireworks had malfunctioned. He looked out over the crowd. No one else had noticed. Their faces were all turned up to the sky, waiting for the next display. He heard laughter, happy conversation, easy jests — both the villagers and the aristocrats were enjoying themselves, despite the cold.

No one screamed. There was no indication that anything was amiss. He tried to relax and pretend nothing was wrong — that he hadn’t heard anything strange, and that he wasn’t a coward in the face of her questions.

She must have seen something of his conflict flicker across his face. “Is something wrong?”

“Perhaps we should rest tonight,” he said, pitching his voice low so no one would overhear him. “I’d wager neither of us have slept since I came home, and I at least am too old for all-hours revelry. There’s time to talk tomorrow.”

Her eyes narrowed. “If you’re too old for revelry, I’m too old to wait.”

He would have grinned, but a child ran up to them, weaving through the crowd and skidding to a stop just short of Ellie’s skirts. “Mr. Claiborne needs you, milady,” he said, his high-pitched voice creaking with excitement. “He said you must find Lord Folkestone and come to the church.”

Ellie frowned. “Was he alone?”

“He had a lady with him. He said to find you, then the surgeon. And not to tell anyone else.”

His eyes were wide and his shoulders were thrown back with importance, like a little lieutenant given his first command. Nick gave him a shilling and sent him running off through the crowd on the second half of his errand.

But when Ellie started toward the church, he grabbed her arm. “This could be a trap.”

She shook her head impatiently as another firework shot up into the sky. “The child belongs to the pub owner. He knows what Marcus looks like. Something’s wrong, Nick. And unless Marcus is the one setting the trap, we need to join him. Will you let me go? Or shall I start screaming until someone else takes me there?”

Her eyes flashed in a way that underscored her threat. Nick turned her loose. But he caught up with her as soon as she escaped the crowd and beat her to the church door.

“At least let me go in first,” he said.

She gestured him ahead of her. He tried the door and found it unlocked. The church was almost entirely dark. Only a single lamp illuminated the scene, enough to be visible through the windows but not enough to draw too much attention. Marcus knelt, facing a woman who sat in the pew closest to the door. With her dark bonnet and cloak, Nick couldn’t recognize her — but the concern and fury mingled on Marcus’s face gave him a guess.

“Close the door before Lucia catches a chill,” Marcus ordered.

Nick stepped aside, letting Ellie in to the church. But before he could close the door, a walking stick tapped against it. “Lovely night for a bit of worship, isn’t it?” Ferguson asked, strolling in before Nick could stop him.

Ellie had already rushed to Lucia's side. “What happened?” she asked, dropping into the pew next to her maid. “Did you feel faint?”

Nick knew the answer even before Lucia shook her head. “Your service is even more dangerous than I thought,” she said shakily.

The maid pressed her hand tightly against her left arm. Marcus tore a strip of fabric from what appeared to be her petticoat and handed it to her. She winced as she added it to the bloodstained cloth she already held against her skin.

“Did you see who shot you?“ Nick asked.

“How did you know she was shot?” Marcus interjected. “No one else seemed to notice. We came here rather than the pub to keep it quiet.”

“I heard the shot. The others must have thought it was a firecracker.”

“I heard it as well,” Ferguson added. He moved into the room, away from the door, as though he didn’t want to be the first man hit in a siege. “My question is, why hide here? Why not tell everyone else to take cover?”

Nick ignored him and knelt with Marcus in front of the ladies. Lucia was as calm as ever, but her breaths were shallow and her mouth was tight. “How badly are you hurt?” he asked gently.

“It’s a flesh wound — it will heal,” she said in a clipped voice.

Ferguson wasn’t accustomed to being dismissed. “My wife, my sisters, and everyone else seem to be in peril,” he said, as disinterestedly as he said most things. “I find myself quite perturbed.”

Ellie glared at him. “I am the only person likely to shoot you. Go back outside and watch over them, if you’re so concerned.”

“I believe I’m more concerned about you at the moment,” he said, leaning against the pew on the other side of the aisle, where he could watch both Ellie and the door. “Why did someone shoot your maid?”

“He was aiming for me,” Marcus said grimly.

“And your first thought was to hide? Why not gather men and search for him?”

Marcus ripped another strip from Lucia's petticoat. He moved to sit beside her, taking over the task of keeping pressure on her wound. “I’d rather she not bleed to death while I go off into the woods looking for a madman.”

Nick stood, leaning against the back of the pew in front of Lucia. The duke had a point, unwelcome though it was. “Care to join the search with me, your grace?” he asked.

Ferguson laughed. “Not until I have an heir more suitable than my cousin. Unless you know who the madman is?”

“I have my suspicions,” Nick said briefly. “And I doubt you’re in any danger. It seems confined solely to me and Marcus.”

“Or, more accurately, me and Lucia,” Ellie said.

Lucia sighed. “I should have shot both the highwaymen on the road. And here I thought I didn’t need another lesson in misplaced mercy.”

Her tone was surprisingly light. Nick didn’t know many men who would handle being shot so calmly, but Lucia acted like she had been shot every day of her life.

The surgeon arrived then, accompanied by Lady Christabel and a slight whiff of ale. “What seems to be the matter?” he asked, walking toward them. “I heard a maid wasn’t feeling well?”

He gasped when Marcus lifted his hand briefly to show him the blood. “She accidentally gouged herself on a nail,” Marcus said, lying smoothly. “She needs stitches.”

The surgeon turned to Christabel. “Perhaps you should wait…”

“Nonsense,” Christabel said briskly, striding over to Lucia. Nick slid out of the way, joining Ferguson across the aisle to make room in front of Lucia. “If I had my bag of herbs, we could make better progress, but let’s get you comfortable, shall we?”

She pulled away the cloth and tsked in sympathy when she saw the wound. “That’s a nasty scrape. Is it bleeding as much as before, or has it slowed?”

She kept asking questions with a gentle voice that Nick hadn’t expected to hear from her. The surgeon seemed content to let her take over, swigging furtively from the flask in his pocket when he thought no one was looking.

Finally, she wrapped another strip of petticoat around Lucia's arm. “Mr. Claiborne, if you will escort the lady to a private room in the pub, I shall meet you there. I keep a bag with the publican and can do the stitches there. Ask for some laudanum if the lady wants it…”

“No opium,” Lucia interrupted forcefully.

Christabel shrugged. “Then a glass of whisky wouldn’t be amiss. I’ll join you in a moment.”

The surgeon followed them out. If his destination was the pub, it was for his own glass of whisky. As soon as they were gone, Christabel looked Nick square in the eye. “That wasn’t a scrape. What really happened?”

He thought about lying. But Christabel already knew about the highwayman — with this attempt, the neighborhood was in even more danger. “She was shot. Someone used the fireworks as a diversion to make an attempt on Marcus.”

Christabel paled. She hadn’t reacted at all to the sight of Lucia's blood, but she suddenly looked like she might be sick. “How terrible,” she said faintly.

Ferguson, ignored until now, offered her his flask. To everyone’s surprise, she took it — and drank from it with nearly as little reaction as Ellie would have. “Thank you, your grace,” she said, still sounding dazed. “I knew you were concerned about a highwayman, but I didn’t expect this.”

“A highwayman, did you say?” Ferguson asked, his hand pausing as he replaced the cap. ”You’re the second woman tonight to mention a highwayman.”

Christabel nodded. “The story just seemed so…unlikely.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” Ferguson said, slanting a glance at Nick.

Nick gestured toward the door. “The fireworks seem to be done. We should return to the group before we are missed.”

Ferguson looked ready to argue, but Ellie nodded. “I will go with you to the pub, Lady Christabel. I don’t want to leave Mrs. Grafton alone during her ordeal.”

“I shall come with you,” Nick and Ferguson both said simultaneously.

She shook her head. “What do either of you know about nursing patients? Ferguson, escort your wife and the twins home. And Nick, I’m sure your talents would be better spent interrogating my guests.”

She was right. He already had a suspicion. Norbury’s absence from the fireworks had turned from enviable to damning. Waiting to confirm it might make the trail go cold.

But the thought of Ellie injured — or worse — instead of Lucia had Nick on edge. “Very well,” he said. “But find me when you return to Folkestone. We must talk.”

She paled at that, as pale as Christabel had been when discussing murder. Was she really that scared of what he might say to her?

“Of course, my lord,” she said. He told himself her voice was cool for the benefit of their audience, not as a genuine reflection of her feelings.

Then she swept out with Christabel at her side — two women who seemed ready to battle any foe.

Ferguson twirled his walking stick. “Shall we go hunting now, or after I’ve beaten you for hiding a bloody highwayman from me?”

Nick pulled on his gloves. “I meant to tell you, I’m sure, but I didn’t want to interrupt your monologues.”

“My father must had detested you,” Ferguson said, clapping him on the back. “Hunting it is.”