Eventually he had demanded that he be schooled at home, for life at Eton, where he had been nicknamed Mama's Boy, had proved unbearable. The nickname had been meant to slice two ways, the obvious, and then too the implication that Gideon took after his mama, that he was as mad as she. The nickname had not followed him into adulthood, at least not to his face, but he had heard the echoing whispers behind drawing room fans all the same.
Yes, he understood what it was to protect one's self, to wish to avoid being grist for the rumor mill. Gideon had always done all he could to protect his brothers from the sting of gossip, by persuading his papa that their education at home would make best use of the tutor's wages. Still, there was no way to keep the local lads from teasing and taunting Benjamin and Sebastian, of letting his brothers know their household was perceived as odd and awful.
Just as he had tried to spare his brothers, he perceived that Elizabeth was protecting someone—a woman named Lorraine, whom she had spoken of during the fever. Whoever Lorraine was, Elizabeth sought to protect the woman, that much had been clear even through the rambling nature of her fevered cries.
Pondering such thoughts caused Gideon to cast aside his own chagrin, and to let the afternoon sun induce in him a relaxed feeling. If he could, he would erase Elizabeth's past, whatever it was, but that was not a task for any man. She would be gone soon, and they had, after a fashion, much in common, so he would be a fool not to enjoy her company while it lasted.
He sat beside her, stretching out his legs and leaning back on his elbows, and realized with a shock that he did indeed enjoy Elizabeth's company.
How long had it been since he could say the same of any person, male or female, and truly mean it? He loved his brothers, but familial love was not always a smooth and easy path, and he was not entirely sure he would say he enjoyed Benjamin's rigid sense of self and Sebastian's too carefree bearing. Love and liking were different things, and here beside him sat a person whom he had come to esteem despite all odds against that rare and wonderful circumstance called liking.
He liked this addlepated woman who would not tell him her last name. Well, here was proof then—if she were mad, she was no more so than he.
He laughed, and Elizabeth looked at him in surprise.
"What is it?" she asked.
He had to lift his hand to his mouth to swipe away a silly smile that threatened to paste itself there. "I... it is just"—he cast about for an explanation, and lamely finished—"I am used to being in the middle of estate matters, yet here I sit, letting the footmen do all the work."
Elizabeth gave him a puzzled glance. "I would not keep you from joining the search if you wish to join it, my lord," she told him.
"I do not wish to join it," he said, settling more firmly on his elbows. "And no more of this 4 my lord' business. I think when a man has spent as much time in a woman's bedchamber as I have in yours, that you ought to call me Gideon." He grinned at her, receiving a shocked stare as his reward.
"My lord!"
"Do not go all missish of a sudden, my dear Elizabeth. I have been calling you by your first name since the moment you could speak it, and it is high time you returned the favor. 'Gideon,' if you please, from now on."
Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow, but even though she tried to look arch, he could see a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "What would Lady Sees say to that?" Elizabeth asked.
"She would collapse away in a dead faint, but I really do not care if she would."
"Neither do I," Elizabeth confided, and now she added her grin to Gideon's.
They sat in silence, only it had become a companionable silence, the kind old friends share. Gideon had possessed one close friend from his days at school, Paul Yardley, so he recognized a friendly hush now it was between him and this woman.
Ah, Paul, who had been struck down during the first assault against Bonaparte. Thinking back, Paul's loss had probably been the beginning of the end of Gideon's social attempts. Whispers could be borne with a friend at one's side, but when Paul had gone, so had Gideon's desire to tolerate the whispers for the sake of the company.
Then Mama had grown worse, and Papa had died, and Gideon had become the marquess. Then how was he to know who was his friend and who but a hanger-on? It had been easier for Gideon to reject everyone, to turn his energy to helping others in a way that no one had ever tried with him.
"You are frowning," Elizabeth said at his side.
"Am I? I suppose it is because I have had a thought that I do not think you will like."
She lifted that eyebrow again in inquiry, a pensive set to her mouth.
"That pearl ring, and your signet ring, and anything else we may find?" he began.
"Yes." She sounded doubtful.
"I think you should give them to me, to keep them for you until you are ready to have them pawned. I have a drawer in my desk that can be locked." She started to shake her head. "They have already been stolen once," he reminded her.
She gave him a sideways glance. "At least now you believe I had jewelry to begin with."
He nodded. He believed it. He just was not sure if she was the one who was placing them in odd places.
"To show my good will," he said, reaching into his coat pocket, "here is another piece I assume belongs to you." He handed her the hair comb.
"Oh, yes!" she cried, obviously pleased. She turned the comb over, inspecting it, then turned sparkling eyes on him. "It has a twin to match it. Did you find that?"
"No. That was found on one of my hounds, set in the scruff of his neck."
"Your hound?" Elizabeth echoed, and there was such a wealth of surprise and bewilderment in her gaze as well as her outcry, that Gideon could almost be persuaded she was blameless of the comb's having been placed upon the dog.
"My lord?" The two footmen came from the doorway, Sam holding something pinched between two fingers. "We din't find nothin', except these."
At first it looked as though he extended his hand with nothing in it, but then the sunlight glinted off the long, thin red hairs caught between his thumb and forefinger.
"The red-haired woman!" Elizabeth pronounced gleefully. "Proof!"
"These hairs were caught on a nail. Must've hurt when they was yanked out," Sam said.
"Well, well," Gideon said, scratching behind his ear, feeling curiously lighthearted. Perhaps a red-haired wanderer had indeed been in the passageways, and logically, also in the house. It would seem he owed Elizabeth an apology—certainly someone had been in his home before Elizabeth ever arrived, so adding the two facts together made for fairly convincing evidence that, at least in this matter, Elizabeth was neither delusional nor engaged in some strange sport.
Was it possible that she did not, indeed, have anything to do with placing the jewelry that was being found about the house? Indeed, how could she have walked all the way out of the house to where the hounds were kept in their pen? Gideon gazed at her, seeing triumphant satisfaction in the gaze she returned, just before she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him in obvious delight.
Almost as soon as her arms were around his neck, she went abruptly still, even catching her breath. She pushed away from him, flushing a dull, dark red. "Excuse me! I cannot imagine what came over me," she murmured, looking down to the hair comb that seemingly had become utterly fascinating.
Gideon felt an answering flush creep up his own features, though not from embarrassment, even if the moment had taken place in front of the servants. He wanted her to hug him all over again, to leave her arms about his neck, to bring her lips to meet his. Impossible! he scolded himself, while yet another side wondered why impossible?
If nothing else, he wanted the sunny, triumphant smile to come back to her mouth, to see the happy glow of satisfaction in her eyes. He did not want to feel this sense of rejection that came the moment she had so quickly pulled away from him.
Heaven knew, it was not the first time a woman had turned away from him, flustered by the peculiarity of his hair and eyes, those features that lent themselves to rumors that his nature matched his odd appearance. But surely Elizabeth had long since grown accustomed to his looks? He did not want her withdrawal, her removal from this new thing he had discovered between them, this circle of friendship they could foster. He did not want any awkwardness between them.
The footmen were staring, obviously confused by the sudden tension in the air. Gideon stood, dusting absently at his clothing. "You two will have to secure that door," he said, covering his distress with words. "Nail it shut for now, and I will hire a man to come and put a lock on it. Our 'ghost' will haunt our halls no more, I think."
The servants looked pleased, and Gideon forced himself to turn and look again at Elizabeth, to face once more the uneasiness that had sprung up between them. "Well, my dear lady," he said, crossing his arms because he could not think what else to do, "am I to have your jewels, to protect them even though our visitor ought come to call no more?"
"Yes, I suppose it is wise. Thank you," she said, conceding the point. She removed her rings, including the signet ring, and handed them and the comb up to him. "That you also found the comb gives me hope that the rest of my things are yet to be found about the house," she said, not quite meeting his gaze.
"Will you make me up a list?" he asked as he slipped the objects in his pocket.
"Gladly, yes, my lord."
"Gideon," he reminded her, then added, "Good!" He stepped back and waved the footmen forward. "Help the lady, men," he said, then turned his back and hurried away, knowing he was fleeing the awkward moment, knowing he was being a coward. But, God save him, he did not think he could bear to carry Elizabeth in his arms and feel anew her withdrawal.
Late that night, Gideon looked around the interior of his club and shuddered. Something had changed. Something had opened his eyes.
Where once he had liked the exclusivity of Elly's, where once he had liked the serious play, now he saw that the other gamesters were serious, sober types. They ought to be here out of sport, enjoyment, the need to connect with other human beings. But they had their stiff drinks at their elbows, their cards before their eyes, their minds fixed on odds and opportunities to best the other men's cards. There was no conviviality, no stirring of camaraderie.
They were strangers, all, come together to play without playfulness, to try to win affordable amounts that could not change their lives for good or ill, to waste time with people who demanded nothing of them, not even friendship.
A cold sweat crept across Gideon's skin, and he pushed back his chair with a loud scrape. "Are you leaving, my lord?" the club employee behind the table asked, prepared to pay him or record his winnings in the club book against play on another night.
"Yes. Yes, I am leaving," Gideon said, knowing he meant forever. He stood, moving away from the table with unsteady steps.
"Your purse, my lord?" the man called after him.
"Keep it. A vail for you," Gideon said, not even bothering to turn around.
"Thank you, my lord!" the man cried in happy surprise, the words just reaching Gideon as he gathered his hat and cane. Without looking back, Gideon stepped out into the cool night air.
Gideon's head cleared a little, and he could even laugh a bit at his sudden revelation. He supposed the impression had been a long time coming, but something had finally made him cease ignoring the obvious this night.
"Something" was Elizabeth, of course. But why?
Because she had changed him, by reminding him the world held such things as friendship. That there was more to a day than duty and responsibility. There was laughing for no better reason than a need to laugh. But look how rusty he had become; it had taken him nigh on to four hours before the effects of laughter and camaraderie had revealed to him that Elly's could no longer meet his needs.
His needs! He had suppressed his own needs and desires for so long that now his head literally reeled from the effect of one tiny concession to himself. He closed his eyes, feeling a pressure in his chest that was not quite a pain, and wondered why this tiny little change left him feeling nearly ill. He was cheeky to wonder at Elizabeth's mental stability, when his own was so obviously askew. Still, the rockiness he felt, the almost pain, the light-headedness, all felt good in a weirdly enjoyable way.
He had given up his club, and got—what? Nothing, really, but all the same he felt curiously light on the horse's back as he rode toward home.
Gideon glanced at Frick's silver salver the next morning and saw as expected that not enough time had passed for him to have received a chess reply from either brother, and he walked on past. Only to come to a sudden halt and retrace his steps. He picked up the outgoing letter written in Elizabeth's hand. The letter was addressed to Lady Sees and sealed with a wafer.
Still giddy from last night's quitting of his club—perhaps irrationally, he admitted to himself with a lopsided grin—he felt boldly audacious. With almost no pang from his conscience, he carried the letter in to the breakfast table. He was disappointed not to find Elizabeth there, and retreated at once, heading for the stairs.
She had taken a morning tray in her room, he discovered when she bid him enter.
"Any callers in the night?" he asked as she set the tray aside, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin.
"None, I am pleased to report." She smiled at him, and Gideon felt his heart take an extra beat.
"How is your heel today?"
"Very good. It is beginning to itch, a healthy sign."
"Do not scratch it."
"I shan't, but the temptation is terribly strong." She pointed to the missive in his hand. "Did you receive a letter?"
"It is yours. One you are sending," he said as he took a seat next to her bed.
She lifted her eyebrows, a gesture he was coming to recognize as mild disapproval.
"I have not read it," he assured her. "But I was hoping you would tell me what it says, since you are writing to one of my neighbors."