Marcus sent him a look. “Now that is insulting. It isn’t enough that you doubt my ability to search his room; now you doubt that I am capable of dealing with a cowardly braggart?”
“It’s not that,” Jack said unhappily. “Whitley may be a weasel, but weasels have teeth and you’ve never dealt with someone like him.”
“Oh, good gad!” Marcus exclaimed disgustedly. “You sound just like Julian and Charles—or my mother.” Patiently, Marcus said, “I may not have led the adventuresome life that you have, or done some of the dangerous, reckless things that Julian and Charles have done, but I assure you that I can take care of Whitley. You just do your part and get to the Stag Horn and into Whitley’s room. Don’t worry about me.” Something dark and fierce moved in his gray eyes. “Worry about Whitley, if you want something to worry about.”
They parted, Jack riding in the direction of the inn and Marcus, taking a shortcut cross-country, heading toward the gazebo near the lake. Jack had the longer journey and it was less than ten minutes later that Marcus halted his horse and, after dismounting and tying the animal to a tree, from the cover of the trees carefully reconnoitered the area. He had chosen this place as much because Whitley had named it in his original note to Isabel as the fact that he was very familiar with it. Taking one long, assessing look around, he decided that his choice had been wise.
Gleaming like glass in the moonlight, the large lake that separated the Manning estate and his own from that of Isabel’s uncle spread out endlessly before him, the far edges melting raggedly into the darkness of the night. In front of him and some fifty feet back from the lake a small gazebo shimmered ghostly white. The lattice-sided building was flanked and dwarfed by two enormous stone-rimmed goldfish ponds and had been built many years ago as a gift from Lord Manning to his wife. Tall, three-tiered stone fountains graced the center of each pond, the sound of the cascading water whispering through the quiet night. During Lady Manning’s lifetime the area had been the scene of many happy gatherings of family and friends but in these latter years it was seldom visited.
Marcus had deliberately arrived early, well before the two o’clock time he had written to Whitley, but he was still cautious in his approach to the gazebo. As he had expected, the place was deserted and, having satisfied himself that Whitley had not arrived early, he approached one of the fishponds and stared down into the black depths. The occasional flash of gold in the faint light revealed that Lady Manning’s goldfish still thrived amongst the reeds and water lilies that threatened in some places to engulf the pond. The ponds were enclosed by a short stone wall and finished off with a wide flat rim used by the ladies to sit and feed the fish. His booted foot resting on the smooth rim of the pond, Marcus smiled. He wondered if the major liked water. He hoped not.
The gazebo and fishponds were located in an open area, and he knew that if he wanted the element of surprise, he would have to catch Whitley before the other man left the concealment of the woodland that ringed most of the lake. Knowing which direction Whitley would be coming from made his task easier, and he walked into the trees and took up a position he decided would best fit his needs.
Well before the stated meeting hour of two o’clock Marcus heard the approach of a horse and smiled to himself. It seemed that he wasn’t the only one who had wanted to be here early. Listening intently, Marcus moved silently through the night, tracking the horse and rider as they came nearer to the edge of the woodland.
When Whitley finally halted his horse and dismounted, Marcus was in position and he waited only until Whitley had tied the horse to a small larch sapling before striking. Spinning Whitley around, he hit him with a powerful right fist to the jaw. Whitley’s head snapped back and Marcus followed the first blow with a sharp jab of his left fist to the stomach and another right to Whitley’s jaw. Gasping and dazed, Whitley hit the ground. Marcus flipped Whitley onto his stomach and bound his hands behind his back as if he habitually did this sort of thing. The tasks completed in mere seconds, Marcus swiftly tied a black silk scarf over Whitley’s eyes.
Marcus thought the scarf a nice touch. Whitley would most likely recognize his voice, but it was possible he wouldn’t. Marcus didn’t care one way or another if Whitley guessed his identity; his purpose in blindfolding Whitley was to keep him off guard and increase the sense of vulnerability the major was no doubt feeling at the moment.
Dragging Whitley upright, Marcus shoved him in the direction of the lake. Whitley stumbled and staggered and Marcus grabbed his arm and hustled him toward the gazebo.
With great calm, Whitley said, “I have money. Let me go unharmed and you can have it all.”
Marcus laughed grimly. “I’m not a robber, my friend, and I don’t want your bloody money.”
Whitley started at the sound of Marcus’s voice and his head turned in that direction. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Do I know you?”
“Now, why would I take the trouble to blindfold you, if I was going to tell you who I am?” Marcus retorted cheerfully.
“What do you want?”
“Just a little something you have that belongs to a lady.”
Whitley stiffened and stumbled to a halt. “Never say that Isabel hired you?” he exclaimed.
“Ah, now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”
To his astonishment, Marcus was enjoying himself. It was a fine night; he was doing a noble deed and teaching a piece of offal a lesson in the bargain. He smiled. And the best part was yet to come.
Reaching one of the goldfish ponds, Marcus shoved Whitley to his knees and dragged his upper body over the stone rim. With Whitley’s head inches above the water of the pond, Marcus said, “If you want this to end now, you only have to give me what belongs to a certain lady.”
Whitley laughed tightly. “You don’t even know what it is, do you?”
“I’m afraid that doesn’t matter to me. I want it, and if you’re wise you’ll hand it over.”
“And if I refuse?”
Marcus didn’t answer him. In a heartbeat, he plunged Whitley’s head into the murky waters of the fishpond. Marcus waited a few seconds before pulling the major’s head from the water. As Whitley sputtered and swore, Marcus said, “That was just to get your attention. The next time, I’ll hold you under longer. Now, are you going to give it to me? Or do I have to continue?”
Whitley cursed viciously and Marcus said, “Ah, I take it that’s a no?” And promptly submerged Whitley’s head under the water once more. He left him there longer, and when he finally pulled him up, Whitley was choking and gasping for breath. “So,” Marcus said softly, “do you want to give it to me?”
“Go to hell!” snarled Whitley.
“You’ll beat me there,” Marcus drawled and once again Whitley’s head disappeared into the depths. Marcus couldn’t deny that he’d taken a measure of pleasure from dunking Whitley but by now it was growing tiresome. Determined to end this as quickly as he could, despite Whitley’s frantic thrashing, he held him under as long as he dared.
Finally yanking Whitley’s head out of the water, his heart almost stopped and dismay filled him when Whitley lay unmoving. Fear as much as anything caused him to violently shake the man, and he was relieved when Whitley coughed, gagged, and gulped in a breath of air. He didn’t want to kill the man ... at least not this way.
Staring at Whitley’s prostrate form, listening to his labored breathing, Marcus almost felt sorry for him until he remembered that this man threatened Isabel and, if Jack was right, England herself.
His voice full of silky menace, Marcus said, “Last time. Either give it to me, or the next time, I let you drown.” When Whitley made no reply, he sighed and reached for him.
“Wait!” croaked Whitley.
“Don’t waste my time. Either give it to me or ...”
“I’ll give it to you ... but I don’t have it with me.”
Marcus knew a lie when he heard it and jerked him half upright. “Then I guess it’s the pond for you, my unfortunate fr
iend,” he said cheerfully, certain that Whitley would cave.
He was right. As Marcus’s hand tightened on the back of his neck, Whitley cried out in terror. “Wait! Wait! I lied to you. I have it. I swear I have it with me.”
Marcus dragged him from his humiliating position bent over the rim of the pond and flipped him onto the ground. After making certain the black silk scarf remained in place over Whitley’s eyes, he roughly pulled him up until Whitley was slumped against the short wall surrounding the pond.
“Make no mistake,” Marcus growled, “if you play games with me, we’ll start all over again—only I won’t stop until I have what I want or you’re dead. Your choice.”
Whitley shuddered and muttered, “No games.”
“Then give it to me.”
“You’ll have to untie me,” Whitley whined. “I can’t reach it with my hands tied this way.”
Marcus slapped him. “Do you take me for a fool? Tell me where it is.”
Whitley hesitated and then in a defeated voice, he said, “It’s my watch fob. It’s in my vest pocket.”
Marcus’s fingers found the heavy gold fob and pulled it free. Examining it in the frail light of the moon, he realized that it was an unusually large object for a fob and closer inspection revealed that it wasn’t a fob at all. It was a woman’s gold locket. The urge to open the locket was unbearable but, reminding himself that he had no right to pry into something that Isabel had gone to great lengths to keep secret, he quelled the desire to discover what it was that seemed to have so much power over her. Besides, he admitted wryly, he wanted her to tell him herself. Unhooking the locket from the chain, Marcus slipped it into his own vest pocket.
Rubbing his chin he studied Whitley. He had been so focused on retrieving what belonged to Isabel that he hadn’t considered fully what he would do once he possessed it. He couldn’t just leave Whitley here bound and blindfolded, although that idea held appeal. Nor could he untie him and simply ride away. Whitley might be suspicious of his identity, but the moment the blindfold was removed, all doubt would be gone. And then there was Jack. Marcus had promised to keep Whitley occupied while Jack searched his rooms, but if he had figured the time right, Jack had accomplished his search and was even now riding back to Sherbrook Hall.
Marcus considered the matter for several seconds and then, whistling softly, he hoisted Whitley upright. Taking a knife from his boot, he performed a trick he’d learned from his cousin Julian. Against vehement protest from the major, Marcus proceeded to strip him naked by cutting away his clothing and slitting the sides of his boots down to the soles. He tossed the ruined boots and clothes into the pond; the major could go fish for them.
That chore done, Marcus turned his attention again to Whitley, who stood naked and shivering in the cool night air. Ignoring Whitley’s startled yelp he carefully nicked the rope that tied Whitley’s hands, making certain that several strands still held. Even with the weakened rope, he decided, it would still take Whitley a while to free himself—long enough for Jack to be well away from the inn before the major returned.
With his goal completed, Marcus said, “It’s been a pleasure, my friend, but the hour is late and I’m afraid I must leave you now. You’ll find your clothes, er, what’s left of them, in the pond.”
Shutting his ears to the virulent curses the major hurled at him, Marcus swiftly walked away and disappeared into the concealment of the forest. He thought about taking Whitley’s horse, but decided that he had tortured the man enough for one night. Still, it wouldn’t do to make things too easy for the major. He rode his mount to where Whitley’s horse was tethered and, noticing the major’s greatcoat neatly tied across the cantle of the saddle, he freed the garment and secured it to his own saddle. Whitley, he decided grimly, was going to have to make do with the clothing from the pond to hide his nakedness. But there was one more thing he needed to do and, leaning down, he nicked the girth of the saddle. He smiled. By his estimation, the cut girth would hold for a few miles before it gave way.
Satisfied with the night’s work, he kicked his horse into a gallop and rode for home. He unsaddled and rubbed down his horse before putting him away in his stall. Giving the animal an affectionate rub on the forehead and a scoop of oats, and taking the pilfered greatcoat with him, he walked to his office at one end of the stables and tossed the garment onto a chair. Chores done, he strolled outside and seated himself on one of the stone benches that flanked the entrance of the building to wait for Jack.
Isabel’s locket burned a hole in his pocket and he took it out and examined it in the moonlight. It looked old and was heavy and of good quality with attractive scrollwork decorating the front and back and he wondered if it was a family heirloom. The temptation to open it was overpowering and, though he told himself that as her husband-to-be he had every right, he could not bring himself to do so. Sighing, he put it back in his vest pocket. Secrets! How he hated them.
Ten minutes later, he heard the sound of an approaching horse and stood up when Jack rode into view. Jack halted his horse and glanced down at Marcus. “You were right,” he said disgustedly. “There was nothing in his room and, believe me, I searched everywhere.” Marcus grinned and Jack laughed. “I’ll not doubt you again.” He dismounted and together they put away Jack’s horse.
Walking side by side toward the house, Jack asked casually, “And your rendezvous with Whitley? I trust it went well?”
Marcus nodded. “Just as I planned it.” Marcus smiled. “It was a most satisfying encounter.”
Jack shrugged. “I’m glad one of us has something to be satisfied about. There was certainly nothing in his rooms that gave me any hope we shall find it.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t have it,” Marcus offered as they climbed the steps to the house.
“There is that possibility, but he seems such a perfect culprit that I’m not ready to abandon the quest just yet.” Looking thoughtful, Jack added, “After I’d searched Whitley’s rooms, I had an enlightening chat with the innkeeper, Keating. Very talkative fellow, Keating. He mentioned that Whitley had made the acquaintance of one of the local smugglers, a Peter Collard by name. Do you know him?”
Marcus’s mouth tightened. “Indeed. Collard’s brazen actions are legendary in the smuggling community. Whitley’s acquaintance with him gives credence to your assumption that he has the memorandum and is looking to sail to France—or places friendly to the French.”
They had reached the heavy double doors of the house when the sounds of a horse galloping through the night broke the silence. Marcus turned, half expecting to see Whitley charging down the driveway. He frowned as he recognized the rider as one of the servants from Manning Court.
“Mr. Sherbrook! Mr. Sherbrook!” cried the young man as he pulled his lathered horse to a stop at the foot of the stairs. “I have a message from Mrs. Manning for you.” Leaping from his mount, he waved a small envelope in his hand. “It’s the baron, sir. He’s taken mortal bad.”
Isabel’s note confirmed the servant’s words.
Marcus, she wrote, come quickly. The baron collapsed shortly after we returned home this evening. The physician has examined him and believes he is dying. Lord Manning insists that you be here. Isabel
Chapter 9
After giving Jack a hurried explanation, Marcus rushed to the stables and within moments was once more riding through the night. This time, fear drove him and he pushed his mount dangerously as he cut across the countryside taking the shortest route to Manning Court.
When he jerked his sweating horse to a halt at the impressive entrance to Manning Court, he wasn’t surprised to see the physician’s black gig in the circular driveway or to find the house ablaze with lights. The Manning butler, Deering, rushed across the wide terrace to greet him.
“Oh, Mr. Sherbrook! I am so relieved that you are here,” exclaimed Deering, his agitation plain to see. “It is just dreadful! We cannot believe that he is dying.” Recalling himself somewhat, Deering said more formally, “
If you will follow me, sir, I will take you to Lord Manning at once.”
Quietly entering the bedroom of Lord Manning, Marcus slowly walked across the big room toward the dais dominated by a massive burgundy and gold silk-hung bed. In the flickering glow of several large candelabra placed strategically around the room, he saw the shape of the old baron beneath the heavy silk coverlet, his hands lying white and still on the fabric. Still garbed in the amber silk gown she had worn to dinner at Sherbrook Hall, Isabel half sat on the side of the bed, her head bent, her fingers gently brushing Lord Manning’s. Beside her stood the physician, Mr. Seward, his long face grave.
Marcus cleared his throat and Isabel started. Looking over her shoulder and seeing him, she leaped to her feet and ran across the distance that separated them. Throwing herself into his arms, she gasped, “Oh, thank God, you came! He has been most insistent that you be here.” She fought back tears. “It happened so suddenly. We came home and, after Edmund had gone to bed, we were enjoying a few moments together in the green salon before retiring ourselves, when he made an odd sound and crumpled to the floor.” A shudder went through her as she relived that terrible moment. “I screamed for Deering and we managed to rouse him, but though he was conscious, his words were slurred and he didn’t seem to know us. It took Deering and three footmen to get him up the stairs and into his bed. I sent immediately for Mr. Seward.” Tears spilled unheeded down her cheeks. “Marcus, Mr. Seward says he is suffering from apoplexy and is dying.”
“I wouldn’t,” Marcus said with more confidence than he felt, “give up all hope, my dear.” Flashing her a comforting smile, he added, “The baron is pluck to the backbone and I do not believe that he is ready to stick his spoon in the wall just yet.” Setting her aside, he walked to the dais.
Mr. Seward glanced at him, his expression grim, and said, “I do not know how much time he has.” Disapproval in his voice, he said, “He demanded your presence. I did not think it wise but he was so greatly agitated I agreed that you should be here. Once he knew you had been sent for, he quieted and has been resting calmly. Do not, I pray you, allow him to become upset again: it may hasten the end.”
Surrender Becomes Her Page 15