No Place for a Lady (26 page)

"I know why they wrestled in the dirt with me."

His words came to her softly, surrounding her in the darkness when she least wished to listen.

"They wished to show me that seven boys could overpower me. They wished to pile on top of me and prove to me that they could hurt me if they so chose."

She glanced up, caught by the wry note in his tone.

"And when they had me facedown in the dirt, half of them sitting on me, the other half showing me their knives, do you know what they said to me?"

She bit her lip. She wanted to know. Of course she wanted to know, but she could not bring herself to ask.

"They told me what they would do to me if I hurt you."

"You cannot be serious," she gasped.

"On the contrary, I am quite serious. And so were they."

Then he abruptly moved over so he could pull her stiff form into his arms. She resisted at first, but it was only a token protest and they both knew it. She needed his touch right now, needed to feel that someone cared.

"Fantine, the only reason they accept me is that you brought me here."

"You do not know that."

"I do. Nameless said so quite explicitly."

She did not know how to answer. "I suppose I was being foolish," she said softly.

He shook his head, then reached over and turned her face to his. "For the first time, you have shown me that something is important to you. The boys are important to you, as you are to them. I am honored you would trust me with such knowledge."

Fantine averted her eyes. She had not realized she had revealed so much or that he would be so astute at seeing it. But now that she had, she did not regret it. He would not hurt the boys.

As for hurting her, it had already begun.

Because at that moment she realized she loved him.

Chapter 14

He felt her stiffen in his arms, heard the catch of her breath. Marcus tried not to groan, wondering what he had said wrong now. She was such an unpredictable woman, angry one moment, giddy the next, and now, from the sound of her breathing, she seemed nearly panic-stricken.

"I must go," she said softly.

"What?"

"I have to go."

"But why? And where?"

But there was no more time. She was already out of his arms, flinging open the carriage door and jumping out of the moving vehicle.

He scrambled forward, grabbing hold of the sides as Jacob drew tight on the reins.

"Fantine!" he cried, but there was no answer. Only the dark shadows of buildings outlined by the moon. He twisted, searching for Jacob's dark silhouette. "Where did she go?"

The form shrugged. "Could be anywheres in this lot. Good thing I was going slow or she might 'ave 'urt 'erself."

Marcus shook his head. "I do not understand."

"Aye, guv. That is just wot me wife says."

"About me?"

"About men."

"Damn!" He slammed his fist against the carriage hard enough to startle the horses. Then he stepped down, still scanning the darkness for some hint of her form. "Do you know I stood in the alley for three hours, three bloody hours, waiting for her. And now she runs off!"

"Aye."

"It makes no sense. She makes no sense."

"Aye."

Marcus sighed. There was nothing to see out here, nothing that would tell him where she had gone. "We should leave. She is more than capable of handling herself."

Jacob did not answer.

"You do not think she hurt herself? Jumping out like that?"

"She be more agile than a cat, yer lordship. She's not hurt."

"True," Marcus agreed. But that did not stop him from worrying. And wondering. Why had she run off?

Eventually, he chose to climb up on top with his coachman, his gaze constantly scanning the darkness. "We will wait here for a bit. Just in case."

"Very well," Jacob answered as he offered up a brandy flask.

Marcus accepted it with a grateful smile, taking a long pull before handing it back. "Tell me what else your wife says."

Jacob grinned. "I will try, but I cannot think it will make sense to anyone but 'er."

Marcus nodded and reached for the flask again. "Women."

* * *

In the end, they waited for over an hour. They waited long after the brandy was gone. Long enough for the horses to get restless and for a fine drizzle to begin.

But not long enough for Fantine to come back.

"I guess we best be getting home," Marcus finally said. "It is too cold to sit out here. And it is not good for the horses."

"Aye," answered Jacob, but he did not take up the reins.

"No, I mean it this time."

"Aye." But still they sat there.

"Go ahead. I have a better brandy for us at home."

That was all his man needed. Jacob had them moving at a spanking pace before Marcus could change his mind.

Still, he had to check one last place before he became thoroughly cup-shot. "But take me to my sister's home first."

Though Jacob tried to stifle it, Marcus heard the man's groan.

"One little stop," Marcus said. "I swear. Then you may have a full bottle of my best brandy."

"One little stop," Jacob grumbled, as much to himself as to Marcus. "One little stop an' we will be waiting there for 'er too. Hours and hours while me nice bed gets colder an' colder."

In the end, Marcus had to promise the man a full bottle of brandy and ten of his best cigars before Jacob would stop grumbling. He did not mind the sacrifice. He knew Jacob was right about how long they would have to wait. But despite everything he told himself, he could not go to bed without first knowing Fantine was safe.

It was not until they finally arrived at his sister's home that he realized disaster had struck. The house was ablaze with lights and commotion. Servants scurried about carrying in luggage from a very distinctive coach.

Staring at it, Marcus had to accept the brutal truth.

Fantine was not safe. She was, in fact, in more danger than she ever had been before.

His mother had arrived.

He cursed with singular determination and fluency, but it did nothing to ease his mind or illuminate what he most wanted to know. Had Fantine returned to her bedchamber? There had been ample time for her to walk home, but only if she went directly here with little wandering.

There was only one solution, much though he hated to admit it. One way to check on Fantine without alarming his mother. He had to climb the wall to Fantine's chamber. If she were there, then everything was well. If not, then he would have to distract his mother long enough for Fantine to come to her senses and return.

"Best go on home, Jacob," he said with a sigh as he dropped to the ground. "I do not approve of servants watching their employers make fools of themselves."

"I could close me eyes," he offered with a grin.

"Go home, Jacob," he said dryly, then watched as his coachman set off at a brisk trot toward a warm, dry bed. His own destination was the small patch of mud beneath Fantine's window.

It was difficult to slip around to the back of the house without being seen by the many servants still hauling his mother's baggage. He had to walk down the street, then come up the back row, cursing the cold and the mud and women in general. By the time he made it to the back of his sister's house, he was thoroughly disgruntled.

"Fantine," he called softly as he scanned her dark window.

Nothing.

He sighed. He dared not call louder, but he had to see if she was up there. That meant climbing the wall.

Putting one hand to the ivy, he began to pull himself up. Unfortunately, the leaves were damp and his boots were not suited to finding toeholds where there were none. With a muffled curse, he dropped back down to the ground and stripped off his footwear. Then, with another heartfelt curse, he began to climb.

He made it to her window despite the wet leaves that kept slapping him in the face. Then he twisted his large frame into position on her very narrow windowsill and leaned down to open the window.

It did not budge.

He worked harder, nearly lost his footing, and still nothing. It was locked.

He did not know whether to scream in frustration or kick through the window in anger. In the end, he did neither. He grabbed hold of two solidly placed bits of greenery, planted his feet on the sill, and stuck his buttocks far out over the ground. The position was undignified, but it allowed him to push his face against the window to peer inside.

Someone had to have locked the window. He could only hope it was Fantine. Pressing his cheek against the freezing pane he frowned. He thought he saw movement inside, but he could not be positive.

"Fantine!" he called again. "Fantine!" Then, he took the ultimate risk. He released one hand and used it to tap lightly on the glass.

The response was immediate. A dark shadow moved and came directly to the window. Then, before he could catch hold, the window flew open and he came face-to-face with his own mother.

"Marcus!"

"Moth—aieeee!"

It was not his fault. Even with one hand, he was in a stable position on the sill. Except the vine that anchored him chose that moment to pull away from the wall. And though he gripped it with all his strength, it was still wet and it slid right out of his hand. In the end, the vine merely slowed his descent.

He fell. Painfully. Twisting his ankle in the mud, then slipping onto his behind with a final, undignified splat. And all the while, his mother watched him, an expression of horror on her face.

"Marcus! Are you quite insane?"

"Yes, Mother," he groaned from his position, flat and spread-eagled on the ground.

"Are you hurt?"

"Yes, Mother. But not seriously."

"Well!" she huffed.

Then Marcus looked up to see Fantine, wearing a high-necked, canary gown, poke her head out beside his mother.

"You see, Fantine," his mother said, "even the best of families have at least one odd fish." Then they both pulled back into the room and shut the window with a resounding snap.

Marcus would have gone home right then and there if he could have. He would have crawled on his hands and knees if need be, but there was no opportunity for escape. The servants, alerted by his scream, scrambled outside, each one to gawk and pretend to assist him to his feet. When he found he could not move without groaning, they immediately lifted him up and carried him inside, gingerly depositing him in the parlor settee as if he were some crazy great-uncle. In fact, he nearly bared his teeth and growled at them just to see them scurry.

He would have if his mother had not chosen that moment to sail into the room, disappointment clear on her face.

"Very well, Marcus, acquaint me with the particulars. How desperately are you injured? Will you be able to dance? Can you stand? If you cannot escort us tomorrow night, I must know immediately so as to find your replacement. Your father will not be in town for another two weeks at the earliest, so tell me now if you intend to leave me in the lurch."

Marcus waited, making sure she had indeed finished speaking. When she spun back around, staring at him impatiently, he deigned to answer. "You are looking quite lovely this evening."

She did, in fact, appear magnificent. Though a somewhat stout woman, she carried her weight with grace and style. Her dark traveling gown was stately despite the wrinkles, and her pinned white hair was still striking.

"Marcus!"

"Hmm? Oh, I was merely admiring your new hairstyle. Last time I saw you, you were still doing that..." He gestured toward his ears. "Ringlet thing. I much prefer this."

His mother gaped at him, her jaw slack. Then suddenly, she spun on her heel and threw open the parlor door. "Lottie! Lottie, come quick! He has lost his wits!" Then she came back and settled beside him on the settee, the whoosh of her skirts nearly enough to topple him over the arm.