by Nicole Byrd
And that was exactly what had occurred, she thought. And even though the contessa had tried to give her cover, and now the earl had offered another outrageous lie—how long did he think the squire would believe such an implausible story, and one which, moreover, made her ache inside, with its contrast between the real and the fairy tale.
She put one hand to her face.
“I believe I am to vish you ’appy?” the contessa was saying.
Lauryn looked across the table at her. Was she being funny? Surely she would not be cruel enough to offer sarcasm.
“I need to go upstairs,” Lauryn murmured. “Please excuse me.” And she fled the room.
In the study, the two men faced each other. They were still on their feet, as the squire had refused his host’s offer to take a seat, and he still appeared grim faced. “If you expect me to believe that you have sudden and convenient thoughts of marriage—this from a man known to be one of London’s most infamous rakes…”
Marcus drew a deep breath. He could not plant a facer on the squire’s reddened countenance, as much as he longed to. The man was older and he had a legitimate grievance; he was trying to protect Lauryn, even if he did it with all the grace of a cross-eyed ox.
“Sometimes reputations become exaggerated,” he said, his tone controlled. “But I will be a good husband, I give you my word. And I think you should allow Lauryn to have a say in her own destiny.”
“As if you mean to make a serious offer,” the squire snorted. “You shall not get off so easy, my lord. I meant what I said; I came here to call you out.”
Once more, Marcus reminded himself to stay calm. The idea that he would lie about such an important proposal made his temper hard to control. And to think that he had been forced to blurt it out in front of Lauryn instead of presenting it carefully to her. Last night he’d thought about how to bring it up, and somehow, no moment, amid all the wondrous passion, had seemed quite the perfect time.
Perhaps he was simply afraid to put it to the test, afraid she would not accept him…. He pulled his thoughts back to the obviously still suspicious squire.
“You may call me anything you like,” he told the other man. “I am simply not going to accept your challenge.” He walked across and pulled open a drawer in his desk, taking out some papers.
“Here.” He gestured to the squire to come closer and take a look.
Squire Harris approached the desk and bent over, squinting to read the print and the names written on the document. “But this–this—” he sputtered.
“Yes, this is a special license,” Marcus agreed. “I obtained it when I traveled down to London, so that Lauryn and I can be married as soon as she agrees to my proposal. They are not cheap, and I would hardly have gone to this much trouble, applying to the bishop, simply for a bit of what you deem nonsense, don’t you think?”
The squire, at last, seemed to have run out of accusations. He sat down heavily in the closest chair. “I find it—well, I am surprised to think I might be wrong.”
“I am sorry my reputation is that bad,” Marcus told him, going to the tray by the window and pouring out a glass of wine. “I suppose I should have taken a greater care before now about gossip and how it tends to become exaggerated. It simply never seemed worth the trouble.”
“And now?” the squire asked, watching him with a surprisingly shrewd gaze.
“Now”—Marcus handed him a glass, and thank heavens the other man took it and seemed at last ready to make a tentative peace—“now, I will have a future family to think of, and I will certainly have to be more careful. That is assuming that she accepts me. If you will excuse me, sir, I think I need to make sure of that, first!”
He nodded to the squire, and then, as he had been wanting to do since they entered the room, went smartly out and back to the dining room.
But to his disappointment, only the contessa was there, finishing a leisurely breakfast. She raised a cup of tea to her lips and glanced at him over the rim.
“If you zeek your perhaps fiancée-to-be, look upstairs. And next time, Zutton, my dear, I should ’andle a proposal of marriage with a bit more élan.”
He grimaced. Was Lauryn angry? Disappointed that he had not spoken to her first, in private? It really was a disgraceful way to tell her, in front of everyone…. Proposals were important to women, he had always been told. His heart beating fast, he took the steps in a rush, hurrying up the flight and to his bedroom. The door was shut, and he tapped on the panel.
He heard a murmured, “Come in,” and he turned the knob and went inside.
She was sitting in the chair by the hearth, her feet tucked up beneath her. She had been looking into the fire, and she did not at once turn to face him.
If she were truly angry…his heart sank. He pulled up a low stool and sat, literally, at her feet, ready to abase himself if that was what she wanted. The only thing he wanted, now, was her.
“I’m sorry the way it came out,” Marcus told her, reaching for her hand. “I should have had more forethought.”
At least she let him take her hand, grip it in his, and raise it to kiss it lightly. “We didn’t expect my father-in-law to come raging into the room,” she pointed out, as if it had been only an inconvenience.
“Still, what I said, it must have been a shock.”
“Yes, rather,” she agreed, her tone hard to read, especially as she still refused to meet his eyes. “How is the squire? Were you able to appease him?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good,” she noted. “That was a clever thing to say, then.”
He waited for her to finish, but she paused and did not go on. He pressed her hand and brought it to his cheek, wondering how he could make amends.
“Yes, it is a clever–clever ruse,” she continued, clearing her throat. “But eventually, he is bound to notice—”
He suddenly understood what she was saying. “There is no ruse!” He reached to grip her chin and turn her face to his. For the first time he saw the tears sparkling at the edge of her lashes. “My darling Lauryn, do you think I would make sport of such an important subject, to appease anyone?”
She blinked but didn’t answer.
“I have been wanting to ask you to marry me for days, but I’ve been afraid….”
Her eyes widened.
“Yes, afraid, I blush to confess, to know what your answer would be.” He forced himself to go on. “I was terrified you might not stay…”
She raised her brows. “Marcus, do be serious. How many women have ever turned you down, even on much less important questions?”
“None of them were you,” he told her simply.
She caught her breath.
“But—” she began, than paused. “Before the squire came, you never spoke of it—”
“As I said, I was afraid to put it to the test.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked back at her. “Shall I be forced, as I was with the squire, to take you down and show you the special license?”
“You have already obtained it?” Her eyes widened again.
“Of course. When I went to London,” he told her. “It was one of the main reasons I traveled to town.”
“Before the squire came,” she repeated, almost to herself, and something lightened in her eyes. “So it is not just my honor…”
“Your honor is important, I have no doubt. But it is all of you I wish to hold on to, my darling Lauryn,” he told her. “Surely, you must know that by now.”
“I have had my own fears,” she said, very low. “I could not be sure, either, Marcus. You have known many beautiful women, charming women, talented women…”
Shaking his head, he pulled her closer and repeated into her hair, “And sad to say, none of them were you.”
They sat for a time, sharing the opportunity to be close. Lauryn was very quiet, laying her head against his chest. Then he kissed her once more and placed her upon her feet. “I regret to say we should likely go back downstairs.”
“Oh, dear, yes,” Lauryn said, blushing. “Squire Harris will think—well, heaven knows what he will think.”
She stopped at the looking glass over the bureau to make sure that her gown was straight and her hair in place, then they walked back down the staircase. The squire sat in the dining room with the contessa, having a late breakfast and conversing in apparent harmony.
So they sat down again at the table and had fresh cups of tea, and the squire told Lauryn about her family.
“I understand Ophelia has another play going on. Can’t imagine that her husband the vicar puts up with that nonsense.” The old-fashioned squire shook his head. “I should think that she would have enough to keep her busy, especially now with the child, and all.”
Lauryn raised her brows. “Giles understands how important Ophelia’s writing is to her,” she noted, her tone even. “Fortunately.”
A knock sounded; was someone else at the front door? Good grief, what further unexpected guests could surprise them? Lauryn looked across at the earl. Marcus turned and waited for the footman to return. This time he came with a silver tray, bearing a letter upon it.
Nodding, the earl accepted the letter and uttering his excuses to his guests at the table, ripped it open at once.
He frowned.
“Is anything wrong?” Lauryn asked.
“It is from Colonel Swift,” Marcus told them. “The Harbor Master has been killed. I think I should ride into town.”
“I can go with you,” the squire offered. “I need to find a hotel room, though I mean to start back for London, soon.”
“I would prefer, if you don’t mind, for you to remain with the ladies until I return. I would feel better with someone here.” Marcus looked worried as he turned back to them. “We’ve had some strange occurrences of late. I would rather not leave them alone with only servants in the house.”
“Of course,” the older man said. “Happy to be of help.”
“But where iz your brother?” the contessa said, as if she had just noticed that Carter was not at the table.
“That is my other concern,” Marcus answered, his tone somewhat grim.
Lauryn looked at him, and he met her gaze with a worried frown. When he excused himself to the company, she followed him into the hall.
“May I not come with you?”
“I would really prefer that you do not,” he said, keeping his voice low. “There seem to be violent men involved in whatever menace swirls around us. I just hope—”
She looked into his eyes and touched his arm gently. “You don’t really think Carter is involved?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I hope not; I would not like to think he would be capable of this. But perhaps he became ensnared before he knew how deep he was going to be pulled in, or how evil the men he dealt with…I don’t know. But I must find him.”
She put her arms about him and hugged him, then with a sigh, let him go. “Be careful,” she whispered.
He kissed her quickly, relishing the feel of her soft lips and the look of concern in her eyes.
“I will return as soon as I can,” he told her. “And I am going to send a couple of Swift’s men to stand guard here. I do not like this habit someone has of killing anyone who seems to get in his way!”
As soon as his horse was saddled, Marcus set out, and he made good time into town, glad that the sky was clear and the road hard and dry. He went straight to Colonel Swift’s residence.
Happily, the colonel was at home and waiting for him to arrive. Marcus was admitted at once and taken into the colonel’s library.
“Glad that you’re here, Sutton,” the ex-military man said, standing up from behind his desk as Marcus entered. He looked grave. “Bad business, this.”
“I was surprised to get your note. Is it clear that this is murder, then?” He took the chair that the colonel motioned him toward. “No question that it could have been an accident or a natural death?”
Swift poured them both drinks at the sideboard, and then brought the glasses balanced on a tray, offering one to Marcus, before returning to his chair. “Not unless you know how a man can strangle himself.”
“Point taken,” Marcus said dryly. He lifted his glass to the colonel, then sipped his whiskey.
“Were there signs of a struggle?”
“Almost none. A few papers scattered on his desk, but the lock on the door was not pried, and the body was found lying on the floor behind his desk. The Harbor Master did not seem to have made an excessive effort to try to get away.”
“Which suggests he did not realize he was in danger until the last minute, and that he most likely knew his assailant, don’t you think?” Marcus suggested.
“Yes, my thoughts, too,” Swift agreed.
Marcus sipped the liquor, then said slowly, “I wonder if this killing could be connected in some way to the cargo recovered from my ship.”
The colonel narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve found a problem there; someone was smuggling items in my ship that I had no knowledge of, until just recently. Now I’m trying to track down the miscreants involved. I wonder if the Harbor Master could have been taking bribes to look the other way—or even taking a percentage of the profit, perhaps.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me, I’m sorry to tell you,” the colonel said, shaking his head. “This Harbor Master has not had the best reputation.”
“What about our men watching the shop on Two Hen Street? Anything new, there?”
“One interesting thing, well, two. Are you aware that your brother has been seen going into the shop?”
Marcus gritted his teeth. “Yes, he told me. My brother can be a bit of a fool. I’m afraid he may have tipped them off to the fact that we have been tailing them, but all we can do is hope not. What else?”
Swift pursed his lips. “Second, they’ve made two trips to a ship recently docked in the harbor, the Blue Dragon. We checked discreetly and its ports of call include Hong Kong and Calcutta.”
Marcus set up straighter. “Now, that is news, ports where most anything can be bought and sold.”
They discussed how to continue the watch over the warehouse and agreed they must put the ship in the harbor under observation as well. Marcus also asked for two men to be sent out to the hunting lodge.
Then he set out to check the hotel and the bigger taverns, but none of them offered any sighting of his brother.
Where the hell was Carter?
Surely his brother was not involved with this gang of smugglers?
Feeling a prickling of unease, nonetheless, Marcus observed the sunset coloring the sky and decided he had been gone too long. He wanted to get back to the shooting box and check that all was well; he wanted to see Lauryn. He’d considered going by the jeweler’s shop, but there were better stores in London, and there was no rush, he told himself. Better to get home just now. He needed Lauryn inside his arms once more, just to reassure himself—would he ever be able to take her presence for granted?
He urged his horse on and before the light had started to fade, he slid out of the saddle, threw his reins over the horse’s neck, and rapped the knocker on the door. It seemed to take too long for the footman to come, and he felt the skin crawl on the back of his neck.
If something was wrong—but then the servant opened the door, and Marcus cursed himself for having an imagination that was entirely too active.
He left the servant to take his horse around to the stable and strode quickly inside. He ascended the stairs with equal speed and glanced into the sitting room. Only the contessa met his eyes, but she put out her hand.
“Marcus!”
Something in her tone alerted him.
“What is it?” he demanded, and this time, a cold finger of alarm did run down his back. “What’s wrong? Where is Lauryn?”
She looked at him, and he feared the pity he saw in her eyes.
“Madame Lauryn iz gone.”
Fifteen
&n
bsp; Marcus felt the room spin, and he had to put one hand on the doorframe to steady himself “What do you mean?” His voice sounded harsh even to his ears. “How can she be gone?”
The contessa gave a dainty shrug. “Je ne sais pas. I do not know, me. I had gone to ’ave a rest. When I came down, the lady was not ’ere. Nor ’er father-in-the-law.”
He felt the blood in his veins turn to ice, and he could barely walk to the nearest chair. He fell into it. She had had second thoughts about the marriage. She did not love him, she could not bear to tell him so. She had asked the squire to take her home.
Oh, God, how could he bear it? He would be alone again.
Somehow, he had known, in that cold, far part of his heart, the part that had never warmed, that it was too good to be true. That long-buried fear that had survived from his childhood, the terror he had never acknowledged suddenly encased him with its hitherto unrecognized and paralyzing lethargy, and he felt as if he could not move, could not think.
Leaning forward, he dropped his face into his hands. His life was over.
“Marcuz!” the contessa admonished him. “You must not just zit there. Zomething is wrong, I know it muzt be.”
He was too lost in his own despair to hear her. Lauryn could not love him. No woman could love him. Certainly not someone as good and beautiful in body and soul as she. How had he deceived himself—folly, it was all folly.
“Marcuz, she took no clothes. It iz all wrong.”
But he had bought her new wardrobe, he thought dully. Lauryn had such pride, she had probably refused to take the new clothes with her. Although, God knew, he would have wanted her to have them. What would he do with them, except burn them to keep them from reminding him of her, her warm touch, her soft skin.
“Marcuz!”
To his shock, he felt a sharp slap on his cheek.
He looked up to see the contessa standing in front of him, her hands on her hips. “Are you mad? Listen to me!”