Furious with himself that she could so easily distract him from his purpose, he growled, “I’m waiting, Isabel. Why were you in Whitley’s room last night?”
His tone of voice brought her chin up and she said angrily, “May I remind you that I am no longer your ward? Do not speak to me as if I am an erring child.”
“I have not,” Marcus said, “thought of you as my ward—or a child—for a very long time.” He brought his horse alongside the now-quiet colt and touched her lightly on the arm. Softly, he coaxed, “Isabel, sooner or later you’re going to have to tell me.” When she remained silent, he said, “Sweetheart, whatever it is, it can’t be so very bad that together we can’t fix it. Surely you have done nothing so shameful that you cannot tell me.”
She stared stonily ahead, fighting the urge to burst into silly, feminine tears at the kindness in his voice. Damn him! Why couldn’t he rage and rail at her like any other decent man would have when confronted with the situation he had found last night? But, oh, no, she thought dispiritedly, he had to be understanding, undercutting her defenses and making it so much harder to resist his persistence. She wanted to cast herself on that formidable chest of his and pour out everything, knowing that while he might be shocked and appalled, perhaps even disappointed, he would not abandon her. For a moment, she was comforted by that knowledge, but then she took a deep breath and pushed aside the treacherous emotions that threatened to swamp her. Her jaw firmed. For his own good, she could not involve him any more than he already was, but she also knew that he would not give up until he had at least some of the answers. She half smiled. Stubborn didn’t even begin to describe Marcus Sherbrook. He would keep at her until she told him something. Could she tell him why she had been in Whitley’s room without creating more problems? Did she dare?
She looked at him, her eyes meeting his. His gaze met hers steadily. It was all a matter of trust, she thought painfully, and there was no one she trusted more than Marcus—even if he was pig-headed stubborn.
Before she could change her mind, she leaned forward and said swiftly, “You must understand: Whitley is no friend of mine. He means me harm.”
Something dark and dangerous moved at the back of Marcus’s eyes, making Isabel glad that she was not the one who caused that expression. “I figured that part out myself,” he said coolly.
“He has something of mine,” she blurted out. “I went to his room last night to find it.”
“Did you?”
She grimaced. “No, you came climbing in the window before I had been there much more than fifteen minutes and I had to scramble beneath the bed.”
He nodded as if her words confirmed something he already knew. “What does he have? And how can it harm you?”
She raised troubled eyes to his. “I don’t know,” she said miserably. “I don’t know what it is or how he intends to use it against me. I only know he has something and he claims that this something is a weapon that could destroy me.”
Marcus studied her for a long moment. “Well, then,” he said briskly, “we shall just have to take it away from him, won’t we?”
Chapter 8
Isabel gaped at him. Torn between tears and laughter, she exclaimed, “And that’s all you have to say? ‘We’ll get it from him?’ Aren’t you going to demand any answers from me?”
He glanced at her, a glimmer of a smile in the gray eyes. “Would you answer?”
She looked away. “I can’t,” she replied in a small voice. She glanced back at him, her expression woeful. “Oh, but Marcus, if I could ... if there was anybody I could trust not to ...” She swallowed and sent him a wobbly smile. “If I could tell anybody, it would be you.”
“Thank you,” he said gravely. He gave her a searching glance. “I trust someday that you will tell me.”
Sighing, she nodded. “Yes, someday.”
Though it went against the grain, with that he had to be content. Looking thoughtful, he asked, “Can you hazard a guess what it is that Whitley has? An indiscreet letter? A diary? What?”
“I’ve never kept a diary in my life.” Ruefully, she asked, “Remember how my aunt used to nag me to do so? She said it would help change my writing from chicken scratchings into something a normal person could read. Believe me, it isn’t a diary written by me.” For a moment a pang of fear clenched her heart and she paled. But what of Hugh? she wondered frantically. Had he kept a diary? She cast her thoughts back to the days of her marriage. No, she would have known if he had. Hugh had not been the sort to keep a diary either, she reminded herself; he had been too busy keeping the accounts of the East India Company in order to waste any spare time on scribbling about the mundane events of his day. The notion of a letter held her attention for a second, but then she dismissed it. No, it could not be a letter.
She gathered herself together and confessed, “I cannot imagine what he has, or thinks he has; he has been very careful not to tell me anything that would help identify it.” She bit her lip. “His note to me yesterday only stated that he had something of mine that, for a price, he would return. There was no hint what this item was, only that he had it and that”—she took a deep breath—“it would be in my best interests to have it back.”
Frustrated by her unwillingness to trust him, he muttered, “Well, that’s certainly helpful!” He glanced at her. “Perhaps he has nothing. Perhaps he is just bluffing.”
“I’ve thought of that,” she admitted. “But I dare not take the chance.”
“And you’re very certain you will not tell me what it is that allows him to make threats against you?” he demanded, his gaze intent upon her face.
Isabel shook her head. “Not until I have no other choice.” Her expression imploring him to understand, she conceded, “I know I am being impossible, but ...” She looked down at her hands holding the reins of her horse. “I cannot. I am sorry.”
“Very well,” he said disgustedly, “you won’t tell me. So let us consider what I do know. You don’t believe that it is a letter or anything in writing that he holds over your head. What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know,” she wailed. “I don’t see how—” She stopped short. Bitterly she said, “I simply cannot take the chance that he is bluffing.”
“Then we shall assume that he is not bluffing.” Marcus frowned, turning over things in his mind. “You were to meet him last night ... where?”
Uneasily, she said, “He’s obviously made himself familiar with the area because he wanted me to meet him at the gazebo by the lake.” Wryly, she added, “I had no intention of meeting him and, knowing he would be away from the inn, I took the opportunity to search his room. I didn’t know you would be doing the same thing.” She paused as if struck by something for the first time and her eyes narrowed. “What were you doing there? You never said.”
“And I don’t intend to,” he replied imperturbably. “My reasons have nothing to do with you or your problem.” Grinning at her expression of outrage, he added smugly, “If you can keep secrets, so can I.”
Blocked and not liking it, Isabel stared hard at the space between her horse’s ears. She wanted to argue with Marcus, but she couldn’t fault his words. But why, she wondered, had he been searching Whitley’s room? Dismay smote her and she asked in a faltering tone, “He isn’t blackmailing you, too, is he?”
Marcus laughed. “No, my sweet, he is not blackmailing me. I am too staid a fellow for someone like Whitley to know something about me that cannot stand the light of day. Now forget about my presence in his room last night and let us concentrate on your situation. I assume you have not yet heard from him again?” At her nod, he went on, “We can assume that he is not simply going to give up and go away. And we can be sure that he will contact you again.” He looked at her. “You and Lord Manning are attending Mother’s dinner party tonight?”
“To meet your cousin Jack,” she said wryly. “The gentleman who was with you last night.”
“You’ll like Jack,” he said, smiling. “And
by then I shall have thought of some way to pull Whitley’s fangs. In the meantime ...” His smile faded and his face took on hard lines. “In the meantime, if you hear or see anything of our friend the major, you are to send a servant to fetch me immediately.” He pinched her chin. “Without fail, Isabel. Without fail.”
“Now why, I wonder, do I feel as if I am your ward again?” she asked of no one in particular.
He pulled her close, his mouth brushing tantalizingly across hers. “I’m very happy you are no longer my ward,” he said huskily, “because if you were I could not do this.”
His lips caught hers and he kissed her deeply, tasting, savoring her increasingly addictive flavor as his mouth moved hungrily over hers. When he raised his head, they were both struggling for breath and her gaze was dazed and unfocused and his own was dark and full of desire.
The colt, which had behaved nicely until this moment, took exception to the nearness of Marcus’s horse and suddenly cavorted off to the side of the bridle path. Recalled to her senses, Isabel automatically brought the youngster under control and the moment was lost. Ignoring the emotions still vibrating through her, she told herself that she was glad the embrace had ended. Glad that he was no longer kissing her, glad that his touch was no longer urging her to surrender. Very glad.
His eyes locked on her mouth, his body aching for more than a mere kiss, Marcus fought against his baser desires. He was not, he told himself doggedly, going to drag Isabel off her horse and indulge himself like a rutting boar. And, he thought suddenly with a grin, she’d most likely bloody my nose if I dared such a thing. Feeling more like himself and less like a lovesick moonling, he tipped his head in her direction and said, “Unless I hear differently, I shall see you tonight at Sherbrook Hall.”
She nodded and, fearing and longing to be in his arms again, to feel those warm lips against hers again, she jerked the colt around and disappeared down the bridle path.
Since the Season was well under way, the dinner party to introduce Jack to the neighborhood was smaller than it would have been at any other time of the year, but that suited Marcus and Jack just fine. Having left the arrangements in his mother’s capable hands—as if she would have let him have any say in the matter—returning home, Marcus bore Jack off to his office and they spent an agreeable time solidifying their growing friendship. Naturally, a large part of the time they spent together was taken up with speculation about Whitley and where he might have concealed the memorandum he’d presumably stolen from the Horse Guards. They also discussed how soon Jack could do a search of Whitley’s rooms and convince himself that Marcus had not overlooked anything.
Having a fair idea how late his mother’s dinner party would run, Marcus said, “I suggest we strike tonight, after the guests depart. Most of the people you will meet tonight are not the sort to remain late; the younger, livelier set is in London for now. I suspect we will have bid the last of our guests good night by midnight—if not before.” He shot Jack a derisive glance. “Once you have allayed your suspicions that I did not overlook the memorandum last night, the sooner we can turn our minds to other things—such as where he might keep the memorandum.”
“You’re taking my lack of faith in you remarkably well,” Jack commented.
Marcus shrugged. “Searching the room of a suspected spy is not something I can claim to be expert in and, while faint, the possibility does exist that I may have missed some vital clue. Considering the importance of what we are looking for, it would be foolhardy not to have other, more ... experienced eyes take a second glance.”
Jack nodded. “So how are you going to keep Whitley occupied?”
Marcus smiled and something in that smile made Jack happy that he was not Major Whitley. “Oh, I have plans for Whitley,” Marcus said. “Don’t you worry about the major. I intend to keep him well away from the inn for quite a while; you will be able to search his room at your leisure.”
The dinner party went smoothly and, though his mind was on other things, Marcus enjoyed himself—especially watching Isabel’s expressive little face as toast after toast was offered to them and questions about their nuptials abounded. Isabel stammered and stuttered through most of the friendly interrogation and from time to time, Marcus took pity on her, deftly stepping in whenever she cast him a desperate glance. Everyone thought her manner charming and just as a bride-to-be should act, but Marcus wondered if he was the only one who saw that the coming marriage did not bring her great joy.
Several of the usual people were there: Lord Manning, Sir James and Lady Agatha, and Mrs. Appleton, along with a last-minute guest, her brother, Bishop Latimer—who had arrived unexpectedly that afternoon for a brief visit and had been hastily included in the invitation—to name a few. There was one person, however, whose attendance gave him pause. Having learned of his unexpected return to the neighborhood, Garrett Manning, Manning’s nephew, was a last-minute addition to his mother’s guest list and Marcus wasn’t certain whether he was pleased or not to have the man sitting at his table.
Beyond his height and very blue eyes, Garrett bore scant resemblance to his uncle and the Manning family as a rule. Most of the Mannings were blond and fair skinned, but Garrett’s coloring was dark, his complexion almost swarthy, and his hair as black as Marcus’s own and, while charming, he did not exude the warmth and amiability that came so naturally to Lord Manning. There was a watchfulness about him and an air of dissipation that, oddly enough, enhanced his already handsome features. The wink of a small diamond stud in his right ear only added to the rakish air that hung around his elegant frame. As a gentleman with which to spend a pleasant evening gambling and drinking or to visit with at Tattersall’s or other manly places of interest, Marcus could think of no one better. He smiled. Except, he admitted, his cousin Charles, the Charles of those reckless days before his marriage to Daphne. Garrett reminded him of that Charles in many ways and, like Charles, Marcus even liked him ... a bit.
Occasionally, when he could tear himself from Isabel’s taking features, Marcus discreetly studied Garrett, wondering at his unexpected return, wondering at his sudden friendship with Whitley. Garrett didn’t look like a man whose hopes had been cut up by Isabel’s engagement and Marcus didn’t see any signs of a thwarted suitor in him. His manner toward Isabel was everything it should be: polite and courteous with no excessive familiarity. Which is as well, Marcus thought idly, because I’d dislike drawing his claret.
Jack was a great hit with everyone. The ladies fluttered around him exclaiming over his bravery and the gentlemen peppered him with questions on his service and his opinion of the war with Napoleon. Jack was an excellent raconteur and was clever enough not to dominate the conversation.
As Marcus had predicated, shortly after eleven o’clock the coaches and carriages were being sent for and there was a general, leisurely exodus from Sherbrook Hall. There had been no time for private conversation, but when Lord Manning stopped to exchange a few words with Garrett on the steps of the house, Marcus, who was escorting Isabel to the Manning coach, murmured, “I presume you’ve heard nothing from Whitley?”
Isabel shook her head. “No.” She frowned. “After I didn’t meet him last night, I feared the arrival of another note today, demanding another meeting. But there has been nothing.” She bit her lip. “It worries me.”
Marcus nodded, as if her words confirmed something he already knew. “Don’t fret over it, my dear,” he said. “Remember, you’re not alone in this any longer; you have me at your side, and I don’t intend for Whitley or anyone else to destroy your peace of mind.” His eyes hardened. “If he contacts you in any way let me know immediately.”
“He isn’t likely to just give up,” she warned.
A wolfish grin crossed his face. “And neither will I.”
Less than an hour later, the guests gone and Barbara having bid the two gentlemen good night and retired for the night, Marcus and Jack slipped from the house and hurried to the stables. After saddling their horses, they rode
away.
Pulling up their horses a half-mile down the road for one last exchange before they went their separate ways, Jack asked, “How do you know he’ll meet you?”
Marcus smiled without humor. “Because, as I told you, I sent him a note requesting his presence: he believes it is from the lady who was absent from their rendezvous last night.”
Frowning, Jack studied him. Jack liked the idea of Whitley being well away from the inn when he crawled through the window into his room, but he was wary about certain aspects of Marcus’s plan. How did Marcus know that Whitley hadn’t made other plans with the mysteriously absent lady? The ability to write was not common among the sort of woman Whitley was most likely to be meeting, so how did Marcus even know the lady could put pen to paper? His gaze narrowed. There was, he concluded, a great deal that his cousin was not telling him. Marcus was playing another game and dashed if he could figure out what it was. Jack believed that any game involving Whitley was a dangerous one and he was troubled about this easygoing cousin of his confronting the man alone.
“It’s a good plan—if all goes as we hope.” Reluctantly, Jack admitted, “I don’t know that I like the idea of you tackling him by yourself.”
Surrender Becomes Her Page 14