“Well, if that don’t beat the Dutch!” growled Marcus, scowling at his cousin. “You were already aware that Whitley had come here to visit my fiancée?”
Jack had the grace to look guilty. “Roxbury told me that Whitley knew a Mrs. Hugh Manning from his days in India,” he admitted. “Roxbury pointed out that Manning Court, where Mrs. Manning resided, was located conveniently near Sherbrook Hall—where my cousin lived.” Not liking the look in Marcus’s eyes, Jack said hastily, “I didn’t know her name was Isabel or that she was your fiancée.” When Marcus continued to scowl at him, he added, “You yourself admitted that Roxbury probably knew about the engagement and her connection to Whitley; don’t blame me for what Roxbury knows.”
Marcus snorted, half amused, half vexed. “Julian claims that a ferret can’t fart in a henhouse that Roxbury doesn’t know about it. After this, I’m inclined to believe him.” He shot Jack a considering look. “You could have told me, you know.”
“I really didn’t know that the Mrs. Manning who knew Whitley in India was your betrothed until your mother mentioned it,” Jack said. He sighed. “And I’ll confess, once I knew of your relationship to Mrs. Manning, even though Roxbury implied I should, my mind wasn’t made up about how much to tell you.”
“I think,” Marcus said to no one in particular, “that I have just been insulted.”
Jack laughed. “As I said earlier, you don’t know me very well, but conversely I don’t know you very well either.” Seriously, he added, “I had to base my decision as to whether to trust you or not on something. Your opinion of Whitley matches mine and that determined my telling you about Roxbury and the rest.”
Not one to hold a grudge, and agreeing with Jack, Marcus nodded. “Very well, then,” he said, “how do you propose to discover if Whitley has the memorandum or not?”
“Search his rooms would be the first step,” Jack said. “If he has the memorandum, I’m convinced he has it with him.”
Marcus agreed, saying, “The Devonshire coast is a known smuggler haunt and it is possible that he is here as much to see my fiancée as the possibility of finding a smuggler to sail him to the Channel Islands at least or mayhap even to France.” He grinned at Jack and asked, “So when do we search his rooms?”
Jack grinned back. “Tomorrow night?”
“Excellent!” said Marcus. “What is your plan?”
Jack’s idea was that Marcus would engage Whitley in conversation at the inn while he searched Whitley’s rooms.
Marcus pulled on his ear and said, “That horse won’t run; you forget Whitley and I are a breath away from daggers drawing. He’d be highly suspicious of my sudden desire for his company.”
Jack’s face fell. “You’re right. We’ll have to think of something else.”
“No, your plan will work,” Marcus murmured, “if I am the one to search his rooms and you are the one to keep him safely occupied.”
Jack didn’t like it, but after several minutes of persuasive argument from Marcus he agreed.
They parted for the night and, after bidding Jack good night, as Marcus walked down the hall toward his bedroom, he marveled at himself. Had he just agreed to sneak about like a thief in the night and pilfer through another man’s belongings? By Jove, he had! And he was looking forward to it.
Isabel could find little to look forward to these days. Edmund and Lord Manning could talk of nothing else but the wedding and, when she wasn’t being bombarded by their questions, Marcus was demanding she name a date for the wedding. Feeling as if pursued by wolves, she thanked God that many of their neighbors and friends were still in London and she hadn’t had to endure the inquiries from every lady of consequence in the neighborhood. Despite the lure of the Season there were still several local families that did not make the annual trek to town and she’d had to face the interested queries from several bright-eyed ladies about her sudden engagement to one of the most eligible bachelors in the area. Like a flock of twittering birds they milled around her asking question after question that she could not answer. And Marcus! He’d waylaid her more than once these past days pushing her to name a definite date.
Feeling hunted, she found herself escaping more and more often to her rooms, telling the butler to inform any callers that she was not at home. Her gaze fell to the scrap of paper she held in her hand that had been delivered by a footman just a few minutes ago. And now, she thought on the verge of hysteria, Whitley was demanding she meet him after dark two nights from now at the gazebo near the lake that divided the three estates.
Had it been such a short time ago, she wondered forlornly, that her world had been turned topsy-turvy? A wave of incredulity swept over her. She was engaged to Marcus Sherbrook! How in the world had she allowed that to happen? That damn Whitley!
She sighed, staring sightlessly at the note in her lap. It was unfair to blame Whitley; he couldn’t help being a weasel and a scoundrel: this was all her fault. If she’d boxed his ears and sent him away that day in the garden none of this would have happened, but she’d allowed herself to panic and look where it had led: to the brink of disaster. Panic rose up in her throat nearly choking her, but she fought it back. She’d find a way. She had to.
Isabel stared hard at the note from Whitley, rage billowing up inside of her. She would not, she swore fiercely, let that wicked rascal beat her. Crumpling the note in her hand, imagining it was Whitley’s neck, she jumped to her feet. She didn’t know how she was going to handle her impending marriage to Marcus, but she could do something about Whitley and the threat he represented. In the note, Whitley implied he had proof to back up his threat, but she knew that was impossible. She and Hugh had been so careful.... But Whitley was a sly manipulator and, while he might not have proof, he could have some item, some thing that might cause speculation—and she dared not let him bring it forth.
Her mind made up to thwart Whitley and his plans, she started to throw the crumpled note into the fireplace to be burned the next time a fire was lit. Thinking better of it, she carefully, meticulously tore the note into tiny pieces before tossing them onto the hearth. Watching the pieces of paper flutter to the marble hearth, her jaw tightened. She’d beat Whitley at his own game. Some way.
Telling Barbara that he and Jack had plans, Marcus rode away from Sherbrook Hall with his cousin after dinner on Thursday evening. Along the ride to the Stag Horn they discussed their plan for Marcus to search Whitley’s room. Jack still wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, but he agreed that Whitley would certainly be suspicious of being approached by a suddenly affable Marcus. They were both aware that there were several problems with their current plan. Fortunately one major problem had been solved: they knew which room Whitley was renting at the inn and they had Jack’s valet to thank for it. Marcus had first suggested that they send one of the stable boys to ask around about the major’s lodgings, but neither man had liked that plan. Then Jack had hit upon using his valet. Fickett, a little gnome of a man, had been Jack’s batman for years in the military and had loyally followed him out of the service. He suited Jack’s needs, and as Jack had told Marcus, “I would trust him with my life, and more important, he can keep his bone box shut.” That was good enough for Marcus, and Fickett had been sent to the Stag Horn the previous night to learn what he could. He came back with the news that the major was not a popular figure at the inn and that he was renting the best suite of rooms situated at the rear of the inn, specifically the northeast corner.
Knowing precisely which room Marcus had to break into was helpful, but they had no way of knowing where Whitley would be that night: he might be out carousing through the village, or worse, he might have retired early, either by himself or with a wench. But if they were lucky and Jack found Whitley at the inn, how was Jack to let Marcus know if he had engaged Whitley in conversation and could keep the major occupied while Marcus explored his room at the inn?
“It seems to me,” Marcus said after a bit, “that the simplest solution is for me to wait hidden o
utside. If he’s not there, you’ll come out and tell me and we can decide what to do from there. I’ll wait fifteen, twenty minutes after you go inside, and if you don’t return, I’ll assume you’ve engaged Whitley’s attention and I’ll set about getting into his rooms.”
Their plan set they arrived at the inn. Jack went inside and, when he did not return after several minutes, Marcus took a deep breath and from his hiding place near the inn’s stables crept around to the back of the inn. Fortunately, the back corner of the inn was covered in ivy and, using the heavy vines, Marcus quickly scaled the building and shortly found a partially opened window and silently slid inside.
Elated with his success and feeling rather dashing, Marcus immediately set about searching Whitley’s rooms. Using only the light of one small candle he moved around the rooms, poking and prying. Beyond the normal places for Marcus to search, Jack had given him a few other places to look, but he found no false boot heels or bottom in Whitley’s valises.
Aware that he had only a limited time, Marcus looked in those places first but found no hidden compartments anywhere. In fact, having made a thorough search of the major’s belongings, careful to leave no signs of his actions, he found nothing out of the ordinary. The major was inclined toward the dandy set if the amount of starched cravats, fobs, seals, jewelry, and the three different quizzing glasses, each with a different styled handle, he found was any indication. There was also a pair of pale yellow pantaloons and a cherry-striped waistcoat that made Marcus wince when he spied them in the candlelight.
Dispirited but not willing to accept defeat, Marcus turned his attention to the major’s bed. Despite a cautious inspection of the pillows and bedding, he found nothing of interest. On the point of leaving, he considered the bed one more time. He’d searched the bed itself, but what about underneath the bed?
Ignoring the sensation of foolishness, he knelt down and, using his candle, looked beneath the bed. In the candlelight his astonished gaze spied a small boyish figure curled under the bed. Shadows danced over a face he would recognize anywhere.
“Isabel?” he croaked.
Chapter 7
“Marcus!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening in shock as she realized the grim-faced man staring at her in the flickering light was her fiancé. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, wiggling out from beneath the bed.
“I think,” Marcus said dryly, having made way for her to crawl out from her hiding place, “that is my question.”
Standing up, he helped her to her feet. If he had not known her so well, he would have thought he faced a boy. Hiding her red hair beneath a boy’s cap and wearing a masculine jacket that had seen better days and a worn pair of breeches and scuffed boots, she could have easily passed for a youth of twenty.
Not meeting his gaze, head down, she swiped at the smears of dust that marred the front of her jacket and breeches, her thoughts jumbled. How, she wondered desperately, was she ever going to explain this? There simply was no explanation, at least no reasonable explanation, she decided glumly. She risked a glance at him and asked, “How did you find me?” Something occurred to her and her eyes narrowed and accusingly, she questioned, “Did you follow me?”
His expression hard and distant, Marcus said softly, “That horse won’t run, my sweet. There are any number of reasons why I might be here, none of them, I’ll admit, reflecting admirably on me, but your position is far more invidious. I’ve just found my betrothed hiding in the bedroom of a man she claims to not like very much.” His gaze cool, he said, “I think I’m owed an explanation.”
A burst of laughter from below reminded both of them where they were and, almost as one, they moved toward the open window.
“This isn’t the place for the conversation we need to have,” Marcus said as they stood side by side at the window, “but believe me, Isabel, we will have it.”
Throwing one leg over the sill and blowing out the candle, Marcus said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll go first.” Bluntly he added, “I don’t trust you not to run away the moment your feet hit the ground.”
Isabel flushed in the darkness since that very thought had crossed her mind. Accepting defeat, she gave a quick nod of her head. Frowning, she watched him slide lithely from the window and disappear into the darkness below. The dangerous-looking man she had confronted tonight was not the Marcus she had known all her life. From her position beneath the bed, hearing the sounds of movement, she’d known that whoever had entered Whitley’s room through the window, the same one she had used only fifteen minutes previously, had made a thorough search of the room. She couldn’t be certain, but she didn’t think the person found whatever had prompted the search in the first place. Had he been after the same thing she had? But how could that be? Even she didn’t know what it was she was looking for, so how could the as-yet-unknown person know what it was? Knowing now that the stranger was actually Marcus, she concluded that it would be too coincidental to believe that he had been searching for the same thing she had and she dismissed that thought. It was also clear that he hadn’t been looking for her; he had been as shocked as she had been when they recognized each other. So why had that paragon of respectability, the darling of every parent with an eligible daughter, the highly regarded Mr. Marcus Sherbrook, been sneaking about in the dark, pilfering another man’s belongings? The Marcus she knew would never have done anything so ... so ... impolite, she thought with a half-hysterical giggle as she followed him out the window.
Marcus was waiting for her, his hands closing around her waist before her feet hit the ground. Effortlessly lifting her away from the building, he set her down in front of him.
Keeping a firm hold on her, he jerked his head toward a small copse of woods that lay behind the inn’s stables. “My horse is tied over there,” he said quietly. “Where is yours?”
She looked over her shoulder in the opposite direction. “I left mine tethered behind old Mrs. Simpson’s place just down the road.”
With one powerful hand now manacling Isabel’s wrist, Marcus headed toward the copse of woods where his horse waited, dragging her along behind him. “Fine. We’ll go pick up your horse right now.”
Isabel had learned a long time ago that there are some fights one can win and some one can’t. This was one of those fights that she couldn’t win, and so she meekly followed his lead, making no effort to escape. They reached his horse and, after untying the animal and mounting, he pulled her up in front of him.
They were silent as he guided the animal through the darkness, skirting the inn and riding to Mrs. Simpson’s small cottage. The hour was late enough that the cottage was in darkness. There was no cause for alarm when Isabel’s horse nickered softly as they approached and Marcus’s horse replied: Mrs. Simpson was deaf as a post.
Once Isabel was mounted, Marcus prudently took the reins of her horse and, leading the animal, urged his horse back toward the inn.
“Where are you going?” Isabel hissed. “This is the wrong way.”
“There’s someone else with me,” Marcus muttered over his shoulder. “I have to wait for him.”
Marcus considered just leaving his cousin to his own devices and riding to Manning Court with Isabel, confident Jack could fend for himself. The fewer people who knew of tonight’s debacle the better, but he balked at abandoning Jack without a word. His mouth twisted. He could hardly send Jack a note informing him of a sudden change in plans, nor could he risk Jack looking for him. Once Jack quitted the inn and didn’t find him waiting, he would no doubt start looking for him in the last place he was known to be—Whitley’s room. Marcus couldn’t let that happen; it was too dangerous. He had no choice but to wait for Jack ... which left him with Isabel. The last thing he wanted to do was to introduce Jack to Isabel under these circumstances, but postponing the frank conversation he had in mind by allowing her to blithely ride off to Manning Court—unescorted, he reminded himself—didn’t seem like a good option either. And then there was Jack... . Jack would be eager for ne
ws of what he had discovered in Whitley’s room, just as he was eager to find out if Jack had learned anything useful from Whitley. Neither topic was for the ears of Mrs. Manning. The exchange of information could be delayed until they reached Sherbrook Hall—which would be, he admitted, sighing, after he escorted his fiancée home and returned to the house a great deal later. Marcus made a face, not thinking much of that option.
He was, he conceded sourly, caught on the horns of a dilemma. The more he considered it, the more his mind boggled at the explanation he would have to give Jack to account for Isabel’s presence—even if he bypassed finding her hidden under the bed in Whitley’s room, not to mention the reason she was dressed as a youth! What possible reason could he give for any of it? He didn’t even have an explanation for her actions himself yet, and he wouldn’t get an explanation until he had the time to speak alone and at length with Mrs. Isabel Manning, something that wouldn’t happen in the short period before Jack joined them.
While the need to know why she had been in Whitley’s room ate like acid in his belly, he realized that it might be simpler to postpone the confrontation with Isabel and send her on her way before Jack rejoined him. Which created another problem for him, and he struggled against the notion of her riding alone in the darkness to Manning Court. Even without the Whitley situation, every protective instinct he possessed was aghast at the idea of a gently reared woman riding unescorted through the night—and never mind that she had done just that to get here. Having her and Jack meet under these conditions was equally ghastly, and he couldn’t decide which of his not very pleasant choices would be best.
Riding into the copse of trees at the rear of the stables, Marcus turned the problem over and over in his mind. He had come up with no solution when he halted their horses near where his horse had originally been tied. Marcus didn’t like it, but it appeared that Isabel and Jack were going to meet tonight, unless he could think of some other way out of his dilemma. Turning to Isabel, he said, “We’ll wait here. He shouldn’t be much longer.”
Surrender Becomes Her Page 12