Page 63 of Much Ado about a Widow

Although Rob had steeled himself for a sizeable group of men, he had expected them to be locals who Travers might have hired for a day, merely for intimidation. If that were the case, he and Brack and the castle servants could likely withstand any onslaught they mounted. Some hired men might even think better of going up against their marquess, and slink off home when no one was looking. What Rob was not prepared for was the sea of men—there had to be at least fifty, strangers every one—standing like an invading army, their leaders in front dressed in black jackets with gold braid and buttons.

“Dear God.” Brack had come up beside him at the doorway, his face gone pale.

“They certainly aren’t what I expected,” Rob whispered. “Especially not from Travers.”

“They’re not Travers’s men.”

“What? How do you know that?” Rob stole another glance at his friend, who had clenched his jaw so tightly the tendons had popped into clear relief.

“Because I know these servants.” Raw anger flashed across Brack’s face. The kind that flamed white-hot until it burnt itself out.

“Then whose men are they?”

“My father’s.”

Rob started, but checked himself. The marquess was living up to his reputation. “What are they doing here?”

“I’m about to find out. Wait here a moment. Let me see if I can get them to disburse.” Jemmy straightened his back and marched down the front steps, like a general about to address the troops.

To hell with waiting. This was his home, and by Christ he was going to be the one to defend it. Rob dashed down the stairs, on his friend’s heels.

“Mr. Buckley, isn’t it?” Brack seemed unconcerned with anything save having remembered the man’s name. “From my father’s estate in Somerset.”

“Yes, my lord.” The tall, bulky steward, flanked by two even larger footman in livery, eyed him coolly.

“You are somewhat far from home, Buckley. This is the estate of the Marquess of St. Just. What is the meaning of this”—Brack looked out at the sea of unfriendly faces armed with a variety of weaponry—“assemblage?”

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but his lordship, your father, has instructed me to find Lady Georgina, who he suspected had been taken here against her will, and return her to Blackham Castle.”

“But as you can see, I am here now and have things well in hand. I have spoken with Lady Georgina, and the entire episode was a misunderstanding.” The commanding edge to Jem’s voice and his stern visage was credible, nothing at all like his usual boyish demeanor. Good show, that.

“Your father gave me specific instructions, my lord.” The steward reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a letter. “I am to travel here, to St. Just, recover the lady from the bandits who stole her, and return her.” He offered the paper to Jem. “I was also instructed to do so without informing you.”

Jem tore the letter open, swiftly read the lines, then curled the missive in his fist. “I have written to my father that I would take care of this matter.” He glared at Buckley. “You can stand these men down, if you please. I will see to it that the lady reaches Blackham Castle with all haste.”

“I beg your pardon, again, my lord.” The man’s stance, however, was anything but conciliatory.

Restraining himself from throttling the man was the greatest feat of self-control Rob had ever accomplished.

“But I take my orders from the marquess, as I always have. Please have Lady Georgina brought out with her maid and her trunks. Her father insists we make the best possible time.”

“Over my bleached bones.” To hell with restraint. He pushed his way in front of Jemmy. “The lady is no longer of your concern. She is now betrothed to me and will remain here, with her brother, until such time as we can have the banns read and be married.” See what they made of that.

Buckley looked taken aback, then his eyes narrowed. “The lady is betrothed to Lord Travers and will be taken to her father. I will request, civilly, that you bring Lady Georgina to me or step out of the way so we”—he nodded to the two huge footmen, towering over him—“can fetch her out here.”

Drawing himself up straight, jaw firm, Rob planted his feet, transforming into every inch the marquess he’d been since the age of five. “You stand on the property of the Marquess of St. Just. Neither you nor your master has any authority here nor over any of the inhabitants of Castle St. Just. If they wish to seek sanctuary here under my protection, then they are entitled to it by my decree, given this date, this instant. Anyone”—he gazed out over the sea of angry faces—“who tries to oppose that edict will be treated as a hostile with the intent of overthrowing the marquessate. Anyone caught doing so can be held as committing treason against the Crown, as the title was created by the King’s grace in 1622.” Rob prayed to God none of these men knew the law. “Those persons will thereby be subject to the punishment for treason, which is death.”

Immediately a low rumbling went up throughout the gathering. Feet shuffled, and the mood of the crowd changed from belligerent to cautious. They might have come prepared for a fight, but not at the cost of their lives. At the far edge the multitude seemed to fan out, as though some men had decided to leave. Had he pulled off the greatest bluff of his life?

Buckley turned to the crowd and spoke to one man. At once, a murmur rippled through the mob.

“What do you think?” Rob glanced at Jemmy.

The steward turned back to them and raised his hand. “Forward!”

“I think they’re more afraid of Father than of you or the Crown.”

The horde surged toward the castle.