A Duke is Never Enough

by Darcy Burke

  When he reached the top, Marcus saw several doors. Resigned to guessing, he started with the first door on the left. It took him to the third room to find her. And he hadn’t had to knock because she poked her head out when he rapped on the second door.

  Seeing her, Marcus hastened to her door. “May I speak with you?”

  She glanced back into the room, then came out, closing the door behind her. Tucking a wayward curl behind her ear, she looked up at him with a sheen of uncertainty in her gaze. “I’m sorry I told Bow Street about you.”

  Marcus ground his teeth together. She was the one who’d said she’d heard him arguing? “What did you tell them?”

  “That you asked about Mr. Tibbord, and that I told you where to find him.”

  “That’s all you said?”

  She nodded.

  Marcus exhaled as frustration nibbled at his insides. “You didn’t see anything else? No one else visited Mr. Tibbord?”

  She bit her lip, and Marcus detected a note of hesitation in her demeanor as she glanced away from him.

  “Mary, is there something else you can tell me about that night? Anything at all that would keep me from hanging?”

  Her eyes widened just before her brow creased with worry. “There was another man, but I’m not supposed to tell people about him.”

  A spark of hope lit in Marcus’s chest. “Why not?”

  “There’s some gents who come to see Mr. Tibbord, but unlike you, they know to go directly to Scog, the barkeep. They give Scog a special word, and he sends them straight up because he knows Mr. Tibbord invited them. We’re supposed to ignore those gentlemen, to keep their visits secret.” She took a breath, her face still etched with concern. “I don’t want you to hang, my lord.”

  These gentlemen sounded like those who’d “invested” with Drobbit. Marcus’s pulse sped at the prospect of finding another suspect. “What did this man look like?”

  “Above average height, but not overly tall. Dark hair with silver in it. He wore a puce waistcoat. I remember because I thought it was pretty.”

  A memory flashed in Marcus’s brain. Stewart Lennox had been wearing a puce waistcoat when Marcus had called on him that day. And Mary’s description fit him. The idiot had come to see Drobbit even after Marcus had warned him not to. The bloody fool.

  Mary touched his arm. “Please don’t tell anyone I told you.” Her face fell. “But if you don’t, you’ll hang.”

  “Don’t worry about that just now,” Marcus said, eager for whatever information she could recall. “Did you hear the gunshot?”

  “No. The common room is too loud, I think.”

  She had a point. Marcus wondered where this supposed witness who’d gone to Bow Street could have been in order to hear it. Not that it mattered since the witness was lying—there had been no threat and certainly no gunshot before Marcus left.

  “What time did you see Lennox—” Marcus silently swore for mentioning his name. “The gentleman with the puce waistcoat?” he asked.

  “Midnight, maybe?” She shrugged. “I can’t be certain.”

  “One last thing,” he said. “I wondered if you might know who told Bow Street they heard me arguing with Drobbit just before he was shot.”

  Mary’s eyes widened with surprise once more. “Someone said that? They would have had to have been outside his door.” She fell silent, her expression locked in consternation. “I don’t recall seeing anyone else come up here, but I could have missed them.”

  “Can you think of anything else that happened that night?”

  She pondered his question for a long moment. “I can’t.” She shook her head. “I didn’t know Mr. Tibbord very well, but he was always kind to me. I hated seeing him like that.”

  “You saw him after he was shot?”

  “I’m the one who found him. I took his supper up around one.”

  That was awfully late to eat supper, but perhaps she’d been busy. Or perhaps Drobbit had simply kept a very strange schedule.

  That meant Drobbit had been killed sometime after Marcus left but before one—a rather narrow window of opportunity. And Lennox had come within that timeframe. Was he the one who’d implicated Marcus? That seemed unlikely, but what did Marcus know? Someone wanted Marcus to take the blame.

  All he needed to do was go to Bow Street and tell them Lennox had been here too. Except Marcus wouldn’t do that. If Lennox had killed him, and it seemed he certainly might have, he’d hang. Marcus couldn’t let that happen.

  Marcus gave Mary a faint smile. “I appreciate your help.” He reached into his pocket to give her another coin, but she shook her head.

  “I can’t take anything more from ye.”

  Marcus put his hand back at his side. “I think it’s best if you don’t tell anyone about the man in the puce waistcoat.”

  “But won’t it help your cause if I tell Bow Street?”

  “No,” Marcus lied. He couldn’t allow Phoebe’s father to hang either. Marcus had a much better chance of surviving a trial and a conviction. “Furthermore, I don’t wish to cause you any trouble. I’ll be fine—I promise.”

  He inclined his head, then turned and started down the stairs. As he descended, his mind churned. If he tried to defend himself against Bow Street’s investigation, they’d eventually find Phoebe’s father. Marcus couldn’t let that happen either.

  Which meant he had to confess. Anthony’s words vaulted into his mind: “Claim privilege.” He could, if he were guilty of manslaughter, which he could plead. He could say he was acting in self-defense and likely escape any punishment beyond perhaps a fine. It was disgusting to think that his privilege could save him from the gallows when any other man would likely dangle from the end of a rope.

  There was only one thing to be done, and the sooner he did it, the sooner he could put this entire debacle behind him.

  But first, he had to pay a call.

  Chapter 14

  Marcus hadn’t responded to the letter she’d sent the day before. In fact, he hadn’t corresponded with her at all. Phoebe had to accept that their affair had met a rapid demise.

  Except she wasn’t ready to accept it. She wanted to fight. But for what? It was an affair with no promises, and by its very nature would be temporary. If it hadn’t ended now, it would end at some point, likely in the near future.

  Their time together hadn’t been enough. If not for Drobbit’s murder, she and Marcus would still be together. She was sure of it.

  Are you?

  Phoebe blinked and refocused on the book she’d been trying—and failing—to read. A shiver tripped along her shoulders. She looked over toward the door to the garden—just as Marcus was closing it.

  Snapping the book shut, she jumped up and dropped it in the chair. Her heart began to pound, and her breath snagged in her lungs.

  The urge to run to him and throw her arms around his neck was overwhelming. She resisted even while it felt like her body would launch of its own accord.

  He glanced toward the open door to the stair vestibule. Phoebe went and closed it. Then she locked it for good measure.

  When she turned back to face him, he gave her a weak smile. “Miss me?”

  She strode toward him, stopping short of touching him. “Yes. I’ve been so worried.”

  He tossed his hat onto a chair and took her hands. He wasn’t wearing gloves. “I can imagine, and I’m sorry. There hasn’t been much to say.”

  She couldn’t stand it anymore. Standing on her toes, she put her hands on his face, running her fingers along the familiar planes of his jaw and cheekbones. Then she kissed him.

  The result was explosive and consuming. Their mouths slanted, their tongues clashed. She clutched at his shoulders, anchoring herself to him and to the sensations he wrought. Desire, elation, need.

  He clutched her backside, drawing her to him so their hips were flush. She felt his rigid cock against her lower belly. A desperate craving flushed over her. Rotating her pelvis against him, she raked her
fingers up his neck and into his hair.

  Their kisses expanded, moving from mouths to jaws to necks to earlobes. She nipped at his flesh, and he groaned.

  “I need you,” he rasped.

  She clasped his scalp. “I need you.”

  He turned her and steered them back toward the garden. She felt the table against the tops of her thighs, and then he lifted her to sit on the edge. When he shoved her skirts up, they billowed around her hips.

  She brought her hands down and flicked open the buttons of his fall. Reaching inside his breeches, she encircled her fingers around his cock and tugged at his flesh. He groaned deep in his throat, a dark, gritty sound that flooded her with lust.

  Marcus shoved her legs farther apart, and she positioned him at her sex. Then he drove inside her, plunging deep.

  Phoebe wrapped her legs around him, digging her heels into his backside as he thrust into her. She pulled on his nape, drawing his mouth to hers. Their kisses were heady and sensual, building the passion sizzling between them. She wanted this moment, this joining, to last forever, but already, she felt her release gathering.

  He cupped her head and pulled it back to expose her throat to his lips and tongue. He left a devastating trail of want and rapture from her jaw to her bodice, his mouth closing on her flesh and sucking hard before he let her go.

  She broke apart, her senses splintering as pleasure engulfed her. She clung to him amidst the rapture, holding on to him as the only thing she understood, the only thing that made sense.

  His hips snapped between hers, pumping into her several more times before he grunted and buried himself within her. Using her legs, she held him tightly inside, reveling in the feel of him.

  She rested her forehead on his shoulder, her breath coming fast.

  “Well, fuck.” Marcus’s words were at odds with the gentle way he stroked her back.

  The question died on her lips as she realized the reason for his curse. They hadn’t used a sponge or a French letter. And he hadn’t pulled away before giving her his seed.

  “Fuck indeed,” she murmured.

  He laughed softly, then more loudly. Then he kissed her temple. “You’re a treasure.”

  Phoebe lowered her legs, and he eased back from her. Before he went too far, she used the hem of her petticoat to wipe him off. Her eyes met the cobalt intensity of his.

  “Thank you,” he said simply before turning from her and fastening his breeches.

  She knew he meant to give her a bit of privacy. He was an exceptionally considerate lover. He was an exceptionally considerate everything.

  Taking a moment to tidy herself, she slid from the table and set herself to rights. She smoothed her hair back, unsure of what it might look like.

  “I hadn’t intended for that to happen,” he said, pivoting to look at her again.

  “Clearly. We were both unprepared.”

  “And utterly swept away.” He sounded regretful, but there was a gleam in his eye that said otherwise—a satisfied pride in the fact that they’d been too overcome to think straight. Or maybe she was simply seeing a reflection of what she felt.

  “Why did you come in through the back door?” she asked, apprehensive of his answer.

  He inhaled, and the spark disappeared from his gaze. Her apprehension grew. “I wanted to take special care not to be seen. It’s more crucial than ever that we not be linked too closely. I came to end our affair.” He took a step toward her with a sad half smile.

  The room tilted sideways for a moment. Phoebe had expected this on some level—he’d kept himself away from her entirely since Drobbit had been found.

  “Two nights was one night too many?” She tried to keep her voice light. “Never mind today.”

  To think she would never experience that with him again… Anguish tore at her insides, and she had to clamp her jaw tightly to keep from making a sound.

  He cocked his head lightly. “You aren’t surprised?”

  “Should I be? You aren’t one to have affairs, and your absence the last few days spoke volumes.”

  His brow creased. “I didn’t want to infect you with the disaster surrounding me. I still don’t.”

  “Is that why you’re ending it, then?” She would have preferred that excuse.

  “Partly. But you’re right. This is too much. For me.”

  Phoebe gave in to her heartache, taking a step toward him. “Why?”

  He blinked and didn’t immediately answer. His gaze wavered, and he looked past her to the garden. “I’m not made for this.” He closed the distance between them and took her hand. “You’re a beautiful, intelligent, kindhearted woman, Phoebe. I pray you will not remain alone. Unlike me, I don’t think you’re meant for that. You should have an adoring husband and children—if you want them. You deserve that and so much more.” He kissed her wrist, his lips soft and familiar.

  “I think you’re being a coward.” The thought sprang from her mouth before she could censor it.

  His gaze flickered with surprise. “Perhaps.” He let go of her hand. “I never claimed to be a hero.”

  And he bloody wasn’t. Anger overtook her despair. “What if there is a child?”

  “There won’t be.”

  Phoebe glared at him. “How arrogant of you to say so.”

  “Yes, well, that is one thing I’m quite good at.”

  “You also excel at being ephemeral.” She wanted him to go before she did something completely humiliating such as cry. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  “I hope we’ll remain friends.”

  Now she wanted to throw her book at his head. “Of course.” Maybe. But not today.

  He looked like he wanted to say something else, but in the end, he just grabbed his hat and left the way he’d come.

  Phoebe stared after him until he was gone from sight. Turning, she walked woodenly to her chair and picked up her book. Slowly, she sat, holding the book on her lap.

  Finally, she surrendered to emotion—to the love she just realized she felt only to have lost it already—and cried.

  Harry showed Marcus into a small chamber at Bow Street. The space was starkly furnished with a small table and a few mismatched wooden chairs. A slender fireplace in the corner sat cold, and a window high on the wall allowed only a bit of light from the heavily overcast day. The dreary surroundings matched Marcus’s mood.

  Harry gestured toward one of the chairs. “My apologies for the lack of comfort here. This is where we typically interrogate people. I’m afraid I couldn’t find anywhere for us to meet.” He sat down, and as the chair beneath him creaked, Marcus wondered if it might crumble from the strain of Harry’s large frame.

  Marcus sat too, but his chair was quiet. “This is fine. In fact, it’s probably appropriate for I’ve come to confess.”

  Harry’s eyes widened and then he frowned. “To killing Drobbit?”

  Marcus nodded. “Yes.”

  “You shot him?”

  “Yes.” The lie burned his throat, but it was necessary. He wasn’t going to let Phoebe’s father hang.

  Harry took a moment before speaking again. He rubbed a hand over his deeply creased brow. “Why didn’t you admit it before now?”

  “I was upset—it wasn’t my intent to harm him.” That much was true. The intention anyway. He hadn’t been upset—he was very rarely upset. Yet he was now.

  He was?

  Yes, he was agitated, unsettled, frustrated. Not because of Drobbit, but because of Phoebe. The look in her eyes when he’d left her a short while ago would haunt him for a long time. Forever, maybe.

  Hell.

  Harry shifted in his chair, causing it to moan again. “You have to know that it doesn’t look good that you waited to confess until after the witness came forward about you.”

  “I can imagine it’s not ideal. However, this is where we are.” He gave Harry a weak smile. “I do appreciate you sending a note. That allowed me to arrange some things.”

  Surprise made Harry’s auburn
brows briefly dart up. “Such as?”

  “Personal matters.”

  “Nothing to do with the murder, then? It was an odd thing to say. I have to ask.”

  Marcus actually chuckled. “I chose my words poorly. I needed to speak with someone, and I was able to do that.”

  “Miss Lennox?” Harry asked.

  When Marcus didn’t answer, Harry moved on. “I’ve learned you fought with Sainsbury at White’s on Monday. Did you break his nose?”

  “I didn’t consult with a physician, but it seemed so, yes.” Marcus settled into his chair and crossed his legs. “What does that have to do with Drobbit?”

  “It’s a pattern of violent behavior. You fought with Drobbit at the park a few weeks ago too.”

  Fuck. That didn’t look good for him either. Still, he would never regret it, and he didn’t care who knew. “Sainsbury deserved what he got and more.”

  Harry braced his hands on his knees, leaning slightly forward. “You must realize this reflects poorly on you.”

  “Put together with my scandalous reputation, I can’t imagine this will end well.” He said this with a dose of humor, but it sounded macabre nonetheless.

  Harry scowled. “I hope you aren’t making light of this. The evidence will be presented to the magistrate tomorrow. There is enough that I expect he will charge you with murder.”

  Murder. The word echoed in Marcus’s brain. The already small room closed in around him. “Where will I be jailed until tomorrow?”

  “Nowhere. I’m going to allow you to return home for tonight. But there will be Runners on patrol at your house.”

  “So, just like the past few days, then.” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his tone, and why should he?

  Harry’s scowl returned but deeper. “You should be concerned at the very least. After you see the magistrate tomorrow, you’ll be taken to the Tower until you stand trial.”

  The Tower… Wonderful. A queasy feeling worked its way through Marcus. “A trial of my peers in the House of Lords?”

  “Of course. With luck, they’ll acquit you, but you should prepare to be found guilty of manslaughter.”