by Erica Vetsch
Charlotte mingling with the women of King’s Place …
Marcus’s endeavors to keep his public and private lives separate had been hard enough when he was a bachelor, but now he had a wife to manage as well, and efforts to keep her from invading his work—not to mention his thoughts—were proving difficult. Especially if Aunt Dolly involved herself in the matter.
“If you ask me,” Partridge continued, “she’ll go back the first chance she gets. She looked determined when I helped her into the carriage to bring her home tonight, seemed to have a lot on her mind.”
Charlotte had said nothing of her day when they had dined at the Whitelocks’. Then again, he hadn’t asked, assuming she’d spent her time in another round of social calls with his mother. Instead of talking about herself, she’d listened to Evan and Diana tell the story of how they had met and married within a few days and how they had restored White Haven to its former glory. Then they had gone upstairs to see the babies.
Charlotte holding a baby snuggled against her shoulder had done strange things to Marcus’s breathing. Would she hold his son like that one day? Or his daughter? Even now she might be carrying his child. An odd melting feeling surrounded his heart, uncomfortable, to say the least.
“Boss?” Partridge asked as they stood on the sidewalk like statues.
Marcus shook his head, clearing it of domestic matters. He had work to do, and he must focus. Partridge’s mention of Aunt Dolly and King’s Place tickled something in his mind. Something he should check on. “Change of plans. You go to the Hog’s Head and see if you can run Coyne to earth. If he’s avoiding me, find out why. If he’s in trouble, find that out too.”
“Where are you going?”
“Time to visit a disorderly house.”
The windows of the parlors along King’s Place blazed with light. Carriages came and went, and men hurried along the sidewalks.
Marcus didn’t creep along the mews this time, instead walking up the steps to the house he wanted, head covered by his cloak and hood, and slipped inside. A pianoforte tinkled, and laughter erupted from the front room. A tightly corseted woman with bright hair piled high and a painted face leaned against the doorjamb.
“Been a while since you were here. Who you looking for tonight? Can I hope it’s me?” She licked her rouged lips, blinking slowly. How much opium had she ingested?
“Sorry, Belle. I’m looking for Pippa tonight.” He kept his cloak on, hood up, and voice low, adding a touch of East End accent to his words as part of his disguise.
She shrugged. “With a cully at the moment. But you can wait for her in the parlor. She shouldn’t be long.”
He didn’t want to sit in that overheated room where someone might recognize him. “I’ll wait outside. Send the tweeny for me when Pippa’s available.”
Marcus stepped outside, inhaling clean night air. The perfume and liquor smells of the brothel dissipated. The steps leading down to the ground floor formed a small courtyard, and he descended into the shadows to wait.
Before long, he heard a girl’s voice calling his name. “Ya kin come in.”
He mounted the steps up and followed the between-stairs maid to Pippa Cashel’s boudoir.
A red lampshade bathed the room in rosy light, and Pippa sat on a chaise, wrapped in a silk kimono. She kept her face turned away, staring into the fire. The room had been tidied and the bed made up, coverlet smooth.
The maid closed the door, and Marcus lowered his hood.
“Sorry I didn’t make an appointment. Last-minute change of plans.”
“Shouldn’t you be at the opera or the theater or basking in your new domestic bliss?”
He shook his head. “I need information.”
“First things first.” She tapped her palm, still not looking at him. “My time isn’t free, nor is my information.”
Marcus took a cloth bag from an inner pocket and tossed it onto the seat beside her. Coins clinked as it landed, and she drew it slowly toward her, again without looking at him. “That should buy me a half hour.”
She hefted the bag. “And what would you like to do for a half hour?” She sent him a sultry smile.
“Stop it. You know what I want.”
A shrug was his answer. Then she turned to face him fully, and he took in the swollen cheekbone and eyelid as well as the rising, angry red bruise.
“What happened? Who did that?” His ire went on the boil, as it always did when a woman had been abused.
Pippa flicked her wrist. “Does it matter? It’s hardly an isolated event in a working girl’s life. A slap here or there is a common enough occurrence.”
“Give me the name. I’ll see it doesn’t happen again.”
A harsh laugh erupted from her throat. “You want to appoint yourself my protector, is that it? I don’t need your protection, and I don’t want it. This”—she indicated her injured face—“is my problem, not yours. And it came from someone who wields more power in my life than you do.”
“Was it a result of inquiries I asked you to make?” Guilt weighed in his chest.
“Don’t flatter yourself. It was business. Sometimes a man might think he owns me, but no man owns me, no matter what circumstances I am in. As I said, it has nothing to do with you.” She touched the swelling, wincing, but her eyes were hot and bold, and she glared at him, defiant and daring him to step across the line of her privacy.
He decided to let it go for now. “What did you find out about the names I gave you?”
She sat up, putting her feet on the floor and tucking the money behind one of the pillows on the chaise. Moving to the desk, she took pen and ink and made a notation in her ledger, waving the pages until they were dry and tucking them into a book. “I asked, but there’s nothing there. Lord Trelawney isn’t any kind of a mastermind. He’s as average as a cobblestone. He is free with his talk in here, like so many of them. I often think the men who come here are more interested in finding someone to listen to them than in anything else.”
Another dead end. He fisted his hand and tapped it against his thigh.
“Aren’t you going to sit down?” Pippa waved toward a deep armchair. “After all, we’re practically family now. How is my dear sister?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
Marcus remained standing. Pippa was one of the few who knew his real identity, thanks to a leak in the Home Office a year ago. A leak that had been plugged for good, but not until the fussy little clerk had tried to impress a prostitute with his own importance by spilling secrets. It had been Pippa herself who had contacted him with the information.
“You could ask her yourself. You had the opportunity, and you turned her away. Rather unkindly, if what I hear is true.” He leaned back against the closed door, putting his hands into his cloak pockets. He fastened his gaze on hers. “Let’s leave Charlotte out of things. What else do you know? And don’t waste time.” If he hurried, he might still be able to make it to the Hog’s Head. Hopefully, Partridge had been able to find Coyne.
“Why are you so unkind? You have access to one of the most coveted bedchambers in London, and you’re always waspish and short. Are you ashamed? Uncomfortable? Embarrassed?” She made a moue with her lips, leaning forward, letting her robe slip off her shoulder.
“Cover yourself. I’m not embarrassed, only sorry for you. I’ve offered before, and I’ll renew that offer, as a Christian, as a gentleman, and now as your brother-in-law. I’ll help you get out of this life, whether you wish to go to Magdalen Hospital to be rehabilitated, or if you want me to find a place of employment for you in a respectable trade. You’ve only to ask. Perhaps you could join Aunt Dolly and help other women like yourself.”
A wry smile twisted Pippa’s beautiful mouth. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Do I look like someone’s laundry maid? Or nurse? I certainly don’t need the so-called ‘charity’ of Magdalen Hospital.”
“You look like a woman who is drowning and doesn’t even know it. Eventually, your looks will fade,
and then what will you have? A sordid past, probably some disease or other, or unwanted children to care for. Why won’t you escape while you can? Why allow yourself to be abused in multiple ways?” He motioned toward the bed and then to her bruised cheek.
She laughed. “Then where would you get your information? Though I might have turned up nothing regarding Trelawney, I do have something else for you to consider.”
“What?”
“Two days ago I had a client who was most talkative. He’s a barrister from the same chambers as those preparing to prosecute in the Cochrane stock fraud debacle. You’ve been following events, I assume? The manipulation of the stock market and the rumor that Napoleon had been killed?”
“Of course.” The scandal had filled the papers, not to mention the part Marcus had played in the investigation. “There is no connection between Cochrane and the assassination attempt on the Prince Regent’s life.” He paused. “Or have you found something?”
She shook her head, the lamplight racing along her chocolate curls. “Nothing as solid as a confession. But you’ve been working under the assumption that the motive for the Prince Regent’s assassination attempt was political or an effort to influence the war.”
“Most regicides are politically motivated.” And they’d turned up nothing, hitting one blank wall after another. Political rivals, military coups—they’d even ranged as far afield as America, searching for some possible gain to be found in the conflict there.
“What if your underlying assumption is incorrect? What if the motivation here wasn’t political in nature but old-fashioned greed? Something similar to the Cochrane affair, where the objective was to influence finance? Aren’t most crimes motivated by one of only a few things? Love, power, or money. You’ve surely ruled out love. I can’t think of a single person who is jealous enough to kill the Prince Regent, not even one of his many mistresses. You’ve assumed from the first that the motive was power, to influence the course of the war abroad or policy at home, but you haven’t been able to find anyone who would benefit enough to kill our pompous prince. But what about money? What if the attempt on the prince’s life was also an attempt to manipulate the stock market?”
Marcus stilled, focusing on her words, his mind tumbling over the possibilities. Had they misinterpreted the motive from the start?
“What would happen to Omnium shares—prime government stock—if the prince met his demise at the hands of an assassin?” she asked. “Or even if the attempt failed, the knowledge that he nearly died?”
Fireworks went off in his head with alarm bells and lighting flashes. They had attempted to follow a money trail, but always who had paid whom to do the deed. And they’d come up empty every time. But what if the motive didn’t involve spending money but making money?
“I need to go. Are you sure you won’t let me help you? At least give me the name of the man who roughed you up?”
She lay back on the chaise, resting her head on a pillow, closing her eyes. “If I gave you the name of every man who ‘roughed me up,’ as you put it, you would never finish tracking them down. It’s part of doing what I do.”
“You shouldn’t put such a low premium on your safety. You’re worth more than you think, and whenever you say, I’ll help you get out.”
“Promises, promises. In case you didn’t know, men never keep their promises. Now, go away.” She put her arm up to cover her face. “I can take care of myself. Which is just as well, since I’m the only one I can count on.”
Sadness draped itself over Marcus’s shoulders as he raised his hood and slipped out, but excitement dogged his steps as he made his way to St. Clair’s residence. Hatchards would be closed at this time of night, and the new lead was too important to wait.
CHAPTER 11
CHARLOTTE CLOSED HER book with more force than necessary. This had to stop.
He was in the house, somewhere, she was sure. Her in-laws had retired hours ago, but Charlotte had been restless, waiting for Marcus to return from wherever it was he had gone. She had heard him come in nearly an hour ago and hoped he would come into the library, but he’d disappeared upstairs. He hadn’t come down to look for her. Had he fallen into his bed without so much as noticing her absence in the adjoining room?
All week he’d been preoccupied, ever since dinner at the Whitelocks’ home. And he’d left the house evening after evening, telling her not to wait up for him. He had been so busy, he’d even ceased coming to her room at night the past several days. Twice he didn’t return until morning.
Where had he been?
Unwanted suspicion inched its way across her skin and through her mind. Who was he with, where did he go, and why?
Was this what her mother had felt when her father had taken up with a mistress? Was her husband proving her mother’s pronouncement correct? Did all husbands stray from their vows at the first opportunity?
But Marcus? Surely not. She didn’t want to believe it. Not so soon after their marriage. They hadn’t even been wed a month.
Was it her? Had he lost interest in her, or had she done something to displease him?
Anger burned in her middle. Marcus had made it clear that he expected his marriage not to infringe on other areas of his life, but this was ridiculous. She felt like a stranger in her own home, alone in her marriage.
Replacing the book on the shelf, she left the library, gathering her shawl around her. Indignation propped up her courage as she went upstairs, and without giving herself time to rethink, she opened Marcus’s bedroom door.
The room was empty. Moonlight streamed in the tall windows across the massive bed, but the covers were smooth and taut, the pillows undented.
“May I help you, my lady?” Marcus’s valet stood in the dressing room doorway, a waistcoat in one hand, a needle and thread in the other.
“I was looking for His Grace. I thought he was in the house. Was I mistaken?” How ludicrous that a wife didn’t even know whether her husband was home or not.
“He returned some time ago, and I am not aware that he has gone out again. Perhaps he’s in the library?” The older man nodded helpfully.
“I’ve just come from there.”
“I see. Then perhaps he is in his new gymnasium in the attic.”
Marcus had a gymnasium in the house? In the attic? What else didn’t she know about?
She heard him before she saw him, up on the fourth floor, under the eaves, in a room she hadn’t even known existed. Light spilled onto the bare wooden boards of the passageway that bisected the attic. Thumps and thuds, footfalls and a grunt. What on earth was he doing?
Her husband stood in the center of a large room, shirtless, glistening with sweat, lifting an anvil from below his waist to chest high, over and over again. He was turned three-quarters away from her, the muscles of his back bunched, his legs braced, and his bare feet set.
Her breath clogged in her throat. He was a sight to see, exuding masculinity and power. And she was married to him. With a final heave, he raised the anvil one last time and then set it on the floor, grabbing a towel from a hook and wiping his face. He hung the towel around his neck, keeping hold of the ends, and turned toward her.
“Are you going to continue to hover in the hallway, or are you going to come in?” He dabbed his neck with the end of the towel.
Chagrinned at being caught staring, she swallowed and edged into the room. “How did you know I was there?”
“Did you need something?”
She noticed he didn’t answer her question. He was good at that, deflecting an inquiry with one of his own. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do need something.” She stepped farther into the room, studying the furnishings. She’d never been in a gymnasium before, but she’d read about them. There were several pugilistic apparatuses, mats on the floors, a bulging burlap sack hanging by a rope from the rafters, and a selection of blades in a rack on the wall. On the far side of the room, a mannequin with a red target painted on his chest had been braced against a pill
ar.
Skylights, black now in the night, must bathe the room with light during the day.
“I never even knew this room was here. Do you use it frequently?”
He finished rubbing his skin dry and reached for his shirt, tugging it on but not bothering with the buttons. “It’s a recent addition. What is it that you need?”
Again he didn’t answer her question directly. It made her feel as if she were intruding.
She’d had enough of that. She wasn’t intruding on his life. She was a part of it. Or at least she intended to be.
Charlotte took a deep breath, letting her shawl fall from her shoulders to dangle from one hand. “I need to change my circumstances, and to do that, I need your help. I have been hoping to speak with you for days now, but you are proving more elusive than a lasting peace between England and France.”
“Change your circumstances?” He widened his eyes. “In what manner?”
She gathered her resolve. “I find that our current relationship is not functioning well for me. I barely see you, and when I do, you are preoccupied. Other than dinner at the Whitelocks’ home, we haven’t attended a single social function together since our wedding. You seem to only need me for one thing, and not even that for the past several nights.” Her cheeks heated, but she forged on. “I realize you don’t want your married life to infringe upon your freedom, but your married life should take up more of your time than an hour or so each day. I cannot survive on the crumbs of your attention.”
She sounded whiny, and she hated herself for it. But she spoke the truth, voicing the need of her heart. She wanted to be more to him than a placeholder and heir provider.
“I see.” He propped his hip against a table, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you suggest?”
Charlotte had no idea. She only knew she was lonely and didn’t like being part of the marginalia of his life.
“All I know is that I saw more of you before we wed. We spoke of a similar love of books and intelligent conversation. We played whist and viewed Greek sculpture and danced at a ball. Now that we are married, we hardly even dine together in our own home. I spend far more time with your mother than with you.”