The Vanishing Viscountess. Diane Gaston
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death and her flight had never printed her given name. She could not think of a single instance when Tanner would have heard of the name Marlena and, if he had, would never associate it with the Vanishing Viscountess. She opened her mouth to speak.
Tanner stood, blowing out a frustrated breath. “Never mind.” He ambled over to the window. “Forgive me for pressing you.”
The moment to tell him had passed. Her body relaxed, but she grieved the loss of the easy banter between them.
“I asked Mr Gwynne about coaches,” he said, still looking out of the window. “I told him we were travelling north.” He turned to her.
“Yes, I wish to travel north,” she said.
“To Scotland, correct?”
She nodded.
“Well, Mr Gwynne’s recommendation was to take a packet to Liverpool.” He looked at her intently. “Where in Scotland?”
She bit her lip.
He made a frustrated sound and turned away.
“Edinburgh,” she said quickly. “I wish to go to Edinburgh.”
He turned back, lifting a brow. “Is Edinburgh your home?”
She hesitated again.
He waved a dismissive hand. “I ought to have known not to ask.”
She turned away, her muscles tensing. “A ship.”
“Could you bear it?” His voice turned soft.
She faced him again and saw sympathy in his eyes. “If I must.”
“It sails in the morning.”
“I will be ready.” She would get on the packet, in any event, no matter if her courage accompanied her or not. She stood, but was hesitant to approach him. “What will you do?”
His brows rose. “Why, accompany you, of course. It would look odd otherwise.”
She released her breath. The ship would be a little less terrifying with Tanner at her side.
Liverpool would certainly be big enough a town for her to pass through unnoticed. From there she could catch a coach, perhaps to Glasgow first, then on to Edinburgh.
So close to Parronley. Her estate. Her people. One place for which she yearned, but dared not go.
She was Baroness Parronley, a baroness in her own right. The Parronley barony was one of the few that included daughters in the line of succession, but Marlena would have preferred not to inherit. It meant losing her dear brother Niall and his two little sons. Her brother and nephews perished of typhoid fever. So unexpected. So tragic.
Marlena had been with Eliza in Ireland when they read the account in a London newspaper that Eliza’s husband had had sent to him. Marlena could not even mourn them, her closest family. She could not wear black for them, could not lay flowers on their graves.
With the shipwreck she would eventually be pronounced dead, the end of a baroness who had never had the chance to claim her title, the end of the Parronleys. Wexin would inherit. Her people, the people of Parronley, would be in the hands of a murderer.
Another knock on the door sounded, and Mrs Gwynne herself brought in their supper on a big tray. Two steaming meat pies, a pot of tea, and a tall tankard of ale.
Tanner took the tray from the woman’s hands and set it on the table. “Ah, thank you, Mrs Gwynne. You even remembered ale.”
She beamed and rubbed her hands on her apron. “After all these years, I ought to know what a man wants.”
He smiled at her. “You knew what this man wants.” He lifted the tankard to his lips and took a long swallow.
After the woman left, Marlena picked at her food. The camaraderie she’d shared with Tanner had disappeared. They ate in silence.
As she watched him finish the last of the crumbs of the meat pie’s crust, she blurted out, “You do not have to travel to Liverpool with me, if you do not wish it.”
He looked up at her with a mild expression. “I do not mind the trip.”
She sipped her cup of tea. “If it were not for me, you would probably be headed for London tomorrow.”
“Probably,” he responded.
She regarded him. “I do not even know if there is someone in London awaiting your return.”
His eyes clouded. “The usual people, I suppose.”
She flushed, embarrassed that she had not considered what his life might be like now. He had been the marquess of her memory, dashing and carefree and unmarried. “Forgive me, but I do not know if you are married. If you are—”
“I am not married,” he replied, his voice catching as he pressed his hand to his side. “A delay in my return should not inconvenience anyone overmuch. My affairs are well managed and rarely require my attention.”
She felt a disquieting sense of sadness from him. Still, that once innocent, hopeful débutante brightened.
He was not married.
Their meal struggled on with even fewer words spoken until Mrs Gwynne again knocked. Tanner rose stiffly.
“I’ve come for your dishes, lamb,” she said as he opened the door. “But first I have something for you.” She placed folded white garments into his hands. “Nightclothes for you.”
“Thank you,” Marlena exclaimed, surprised again at the woman’s kindness. She placed their dishes on the tray.
“That is good of you, Mrs Gwynne.” Tanner took the garments and placed them on the bed. “Might we purchase them from you?”
The woman waved a hand at him. “Oh, I hate to ask you for money after all you have been through.”
“I insist,” he said.
Mrs Gwynne gave him a motherly pat on the cheek. “Then we will settle up tomorrow, Mr Lear. Is there anything else you might require?”
“I can think of nothing.” He turned to Marlena.
She shook her head and handed Mrs Gwynne the tray full of dishes. She walked over to open the door for the woman.
Marlena stopped her before she crossed the threshold. “Wait.” She glanced over to Tanner. “Would it be possible for someone to launder my—my husband’s shirt? He would so like it to be clean.”
Mrs. Gwynne brightened. “It would indeed be possible. I’ll see to it myself and dry it in front of the fire.” She stepped over to Tanner again. “Give it over, lamb.”
Tanner glanced at Marlena before pulling the shirt over his head and draping it over Mrs Gwynne’s arm. “Thank you again.”
The innkeeper’s wife smiled and bustled out of the room.
Tanner turned to Marlena. “That was thoughtful of you.”
His skin glowed gold in the light from the oil lamp and the fireplace, but he was no less magnificent than he’d appeared that morning or as he bathed. Just as one is tempted to touch a statue, Marlena was tempted to run her fingers down his chest, to feel his sculpted muscles for herself.
She resisted. “No more thoughtful than you asking for my bath. I would say we are even now, except for the matter of you saving my life.”
His mouth curved into a half-smile. “We are even on that score, as well. Do you not recall hitting Mr Davies-the-Younger over the head?”
“I am appalled at that family, the lot of them.” She shook her head.
He smiled. “You’ll get no argument from me on that score.”
He picked up one of the garments Mrs Gwynne had brought them and put it