“Another robbery in Mayfair. Sheffield, just as our informant told us,” Marlowe offered, his tone remaining casual.
Scar Face trundled across the tavern and embraced Marcus, pulling him to his feet.
So now I’m safe on earth once more,
Resolved no more to roam …
“A golden voice, this one,” the drunken Scar Face assured Marlowe before returning to his friends.
Marcus sat back down, the ditty having given him time to think. “Sheffield seems an obvious enough mark, don’t you think?”
“True enough, though the thieves took only what our informant said they would—one of the Orlov emeralds.”
Marcus absorbed the information with particular interest, though his gaze remained neutral.
“These Orlov emeralds, what do you know of them?” Marcus asked, having, in true Corinthian style, received only the necessary information when Carmichael and he had spoken of the smuggling.
Marlowe took a swig of his ale. “Well, there’s eight emeralds in all—egg-sized, from what I’ve been told. They were originally fashioned into a necklace for Empress Catherine nearly fifty years ago. The piece was stolen and the jewels were split up and sold. Most of them found their way here, to England.”
Marcus wondered at the name. “Orlov? Surely not named for Alexei Orlov?”
Marlowe paused, applauding Scar Face’s jig. “No, not for the man who murdered Catherine’s husband—for his brother, Gregory, rumored to be her lover. From what we’ve learned, the Empress was outraged when she learned of the theft. Seems the emeralds had been in the Orlov family for generations—bore mystical qualities or some such nonsense. Whether they do or don’t is of no consequence. They’re worth a fortune, and every emperor since has attempted to recover them.”
“And what does Napoleon have to do with these particular emeralds?” Marcus pressed.
“Emperor Alexander promised to behave and maintain the trade embargo against Britain if Napoleon finds and returns the emeralds,” Marlowe replied. “And that means one fewer war on his hands, which many say even Boney could not win.”
It was plausible, Marcus realized ruefully. “And how many are in French possession?”
“Six.”
Marcus nodded. “Any villagers of interest?”
“Beyond the common smugglers? Not that I’ve found.”
“Have you met the Honorable Ambrose Dixon?” he asked, taking one last drink then pushing his tankard aside.
Marlowe smiled. “Not Dixon himself, but I’ve made the acquaintance of some of the female servants.”
“I’m sure that you have,” Marcus scoffed, remembering Marlowe’s reputation with women. “Do endeavor to remain on friendly terms with them, won’t you? There’s something about Dixon. I can’t put my finger on it just yet.”
“Always happy to be of help,” Marlowe answered knowingly.
“Keep me informed,” Marcus said simply, rising.
“That I’ll do,” Marlowe replied, “that I’ll do.”
Claire Crawford was everything that Sarah was not. Her impeccable style, irreproachable demeanor, and innate ability to charm the horns off a disgruntled ram made her the envy of the entire female population of Dorset.
Save for Sarah.
For Claire made Sarah feel just as special, and not because she was kind or thoughtful or any of those things that women are supposed to be.
Though she was.
No, Claire treated Sarah as though she were special because Claire believed it to be so.
“Six events, Sarah, and I’ll not take one less,” Claire insisted, holding a lovely blue gown up for approval.
“Beautiful. It matches your eyes,” Sarah answered, twisting a lock of stray hair around her finger as she reclined on Claire’s bed. “One event,” she bargained.
Claire smiled at the compliment, then flung the dress onto the end of the bed and reached for another. “Five. And I’ll not budge.” She held the pale yellow gown up to her body, emphasizing the low neckline that would accentuate her growing bosom with an arching of her eyebrow.
“Oh yes, please,” Sarah confirmed with a giggle. “Two events, and that’s my limit.”
The yellow gown joined the blue one in the colorful pile of silk and lace on the bed. “Really, Sarah, stubbornness is not an attractive quality. Four.”
“Two.”
“Three or I’ll …” Claire paused, obviously attempting to conjure the vilest of threats. “Or I’ll … Bad dog!”
Sarah sat up just in time to see Claire retrieve what was left of a badly chewed pale brown kid boot from Titus’s mouth.
“Or I’ll banish your beast from my house. Forever!”
“Really, Claire, it was not the most attractive shoe to begin—”
“Forever, Sarah!” Claire repeated, running her finger through a hole in the toe of the boot and glaring threateningly at her.
Sarah gave Titus the most scolding look she could muster, and then flopped back on the bed. “Oh, all right. I will attend three events at your house party, but they will be of my choosing and will most certainly not include dancing. Of any kind,” she emphasized with a severe look. “Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Claire confirmed with a winning smile before rubbing her lower back and joining Sarah on the bed.
The mattress suddenly sagged in the middle as Titus hefted himself up onto the cream-curtained bed and thrust himself between the two women. He rested his head on Sarah’s thigh and heaved a huge sigh of contentment.
“You bribed him, didn’t you?”
“I most certainly did not!” Claire answered resolutely. “Titus needs little convincing on matters involving destruction, as you well know.”
The dog lifted his head, looked from Sarah to Claire, then back again, before a leather-scented huff escaped from between his enormous jowls. Then he lowered his head once more, closed his eyes, and immediately began to snore.
“Speaking of which, did you ever see fit to reimburse Lord Weston for the dogged demise of his coat?”
“Oh, Lord Weston.”
Claire carefully positioned herself so that she was facing Sarah. “I’m sorry, was that a dreamily uttered ‘oh’ or one laced with irritation?”
“Really, Claire, I thought that I’d made my position as regards Lord Weston clear,” Sarah answered. “Besides, I can’t imagine what he must think of me after that whole disaster with my mother.”
“I know—it’s just that, well, he is quite handsome. And perhaps his attentions would dissuade Dixon from pursuing you quite so vigorously.”
Sarah turned to face her friend, upsetting Titus’s nap. “Do you propose I use him for my own nefarious plans? Is that an honorable act?”
Sarah watched the expressions flit across Claire’s features as the woman struggled with her conscience. Claire could no more urge her friend to do such a thing than she could do it herself.
“Did I mention that he’s quite handsome?”
Sarah laughed. “Yes, yes, you did.”
And really, Claire needn’t remind her of Lord Weston’s physical attributes. The thorough perusal she’d made of him while hiding in the woods still weighed heavily on her mind.
And other more intimate places of her person, if she were being completely honest.
“Besides, I highly doubt the earl will want anything more to do with me at this point,” Sarah continued, brushing a lock of stray hair from her cheek.
“I doubt the coat was of such significance to him—”
“Oh, no, this has nothing to do with the coat,” Sarah interrupted. “No, he found me hiding on the lawn.”
Claire’s lips pursed as she thought through the statement.
“Actually, I was crawling toward the rhododendron bush,” Sarah elaborated. “So, really, he found me in the act of—”
“Your lawn?” Claire queried, her lips continuing to purse.
Sarah gently tugged on the errant strand of hair and brushed it against her li
ps. “Well, I’d hardly be hiding on his lawn, now, would I?”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Sarah,” she said, in the long, drawn-out way she always did when it was clear more details were needed.
“I was hiding from Mr. Dixon, as I am known to do,” Sarah began.
“True.”
“Only this particular situation required quick thinking on my part, as Mr. Dixon arrived much earlier than expected. I’d just begun to cross the lawn when I heard his horse. So I ran.”
“Quite rude of him, I must say. Making you run,” Claire interjected.
“Precisely!” Sarah agreed with relish. She dropped the curl and reached for Claire’s hand. “I found myself in the middle of the lawn with only bushes and fronds for cover. Which, I must say, actually worked quite well until Lord Weston arrived.”
“Why on earth did you leave the safety of the bush?”
Sarah smiled as Titus began to snore. “Well, I could hardly spend the rest of my life in a rhododendron bush, and besides, I’d no idea that Lord Weston was coming to call.”
Claire nodded. “I see. Then what happened?”
“I made a bargain with Lord Weston, and then crawled my way to the wood. So you see, the earl will surely have no need of me now that he’s witnessed—”
“A bargain?” Claire asked, gently pulling her hand from Sarah’s. “What sort of bargain?”
Sarah grimaced. “I can’t say.”
“You can’t or you won’t?” Claire pressed, worry in her tone.
“Good heavens, Claire, nothing as coarse as what your tone implies. Lord Weston simply required a price for his failure to make my whereabouts known and I agreed.”
“The price, then?” Claire probed again.
Sarah cleared her throat. “There was hardly time to discuss such matters—”
“You agreed without knowing what you promised?” Claire squeaked, her eyes growing slightly wild.
“I could hardly argue, Claire. There I was, covered in grass and the good Lord only knows what else, embarrassed and, quite frankly, desperate to be done with the matter. If Lord Weston has any sense he’ll demand that I promise to not come within a league of him or his home.”
Claire’s face fell. “Oh, Sarah. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“What, that one could hardly decide upon a price while astride a horse whose nose is dangerously close to a certain woman’s derri—”
“Sarah.”
“… ere. Really Claire, I adore you, but must you always interrupt—”
Claire rolled onto her back. “You fancy Lord Weston.”
Sarah let out the breath she’d surely been holding in all day. “Is that what’s wrong with me?”
“I believe so.”
“Bollocks.”
The two laughed softly as only the best of friends could.
Sarah snuggled in closer to Claire. “He makes me perspire. Is that to be expected?”
“Oh, yes,” Claire answered furtively. “It’s to be hoped for, actually.”
“And angry.”
“You would not be you if he did not.”
“It’s hopeless, of course.”
Claire slowly sat up and patted Titus on the head. “Do not assume anything, Sarah.” She dropped her feet to the polished oaken floor and carefully stood, pulling the crushed gowns from under Titus’s weight with annoyance.
“I do adore you—you know I do,” Sarah continued, pushing herself up and settling next to Titus reassuringly. “But your positive outlook can be a tad irritating.”
“Positive outlook or not, I saw how Weston looked at you while you danced together. For once, can you not simply let things unfold as they may?” Claire countered, setting the gowns on the gilt-edged upholstered chair near the window. “Can you do that for me?” Claire asked, turning to face Sarah. “Right now.”
Sarah hesitated. “As in this very moment?”
“If not sooner,” Claire answered, walking toward the bed. “Lord Weston is here.”
Sarah’s hand stopped midair over Titus’s wrinkled head. “Here? At Bennington House?”
“Yes. Gregory asked him to aid in the plans for tomorrow’s hunt.”
Titus batted at Sarah with his gigantic paw until she resumed petting him. “And you only just now thought to tell me?”
“I’m sorry, I truly am, but I honestly didn’t realize that his presence would be a problem. There’s little time to dwell on such things now,” Claire said apologetically, pulling Sarah to stand. “You’ve only a few moments to compose yourself before he arrives and we must go downstairs and join the men.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” Sarah answered, her sharp tone causing Titus to bark.
“But you only just confirmed that you would try—”
“I’d no idea you meant immediately. Claire, I’ve only just … That is, my feelings for Lord Weston—”
“—to let things unfold—”
“Claire!” Sarah yelped. “I am not accustomed to such a cacophony of emotion. You must give me time!”
Titus began to howl.
And Sarah ran for her life.
“Howling, Bennington?” Marcus asked as the two men jointly peered upward at the striking Adam-style ceiling, its delicate details painted in shades of blue appearing to quiver with fright from the sound.
Bennington smiled. “Have you met Titus, Miss Tisdale’s dog?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Marcus confirmed, following Bennington out of the drawing room and into the long hall that ran the length of the stately country mansion.
Bennington paused, the rumbling from the floor above them marking Titus’s progress toward the stairs. “He’s a brute, but Sarah adores him—and he, her. We attempted to tie him up outside during her visits, but—”
“He chewed through the rope? Ate the cook for an appetizer, and then demolished the east wing?” Marcus asked jokingly.
“Howled. For the entire length of Sarah’s visit. Do you have any idea how irritating one dog can make himself?” Bennington asked, flinching as the floorboards seemingly began to sway from the dog’s lumbering.
“An inkling,” Marcus answered, though he couldn’t help but smile as he listened to the dog. A brute, indeed, but a loyal and, quite honestly, humorous one. “Will your wife and Miss Tisdale be joining us?”
The thunder of paws grew softer and softer until one could hear a howl only now and again. “I’m sure that the ladies will want to say hello, but beyond that they’ll be of little help with the cub hunt,” Bennington answered casually. “Sherry will be served on the terrace. Please go on ahead,” he suggested, gesturing down the hall to where a set of glass-paned doors stood ajar. “I’ll just check in on the ladies—make sure that Titus hasn’t swallowed a servant. Or worse. I’ll be but a moment.”
Marcus threw him an amused smile before Bennington took the stairs two at a time, disappearing onto the upper floor.
He walked slowly down the hall, peering in several open doorways as he went. The house was well appointed and in perfect order, nary a speck of dust to be found in sight. He reached the open terrace doors, noting the expanse of manicured lawn and gardens that lay just beyond.
There was something lighter—airier—about Bennington’s home than his own, though Marcus couldn’t be sure what precisely caused him to think such a thing. Bennington himself, perhaps, whose good nature was infectious. Or maybe it was the man’s pregnant wife.
“Woof!”
Titus’s deep bark echoed through the house. Marcus noted the sound wasn’t coming from the front, where the stairs were, but somewhere off to his right.
He wandered in the general direction of the noise, passing through several rooms until he found himself at the foot of the servants’ stairs.
“Please, Titus. Do behave yourself,” a female voice urgently whispered.
“Woof.”
Clumsy footsteps sounded on the stairs, followed immediately by the loud, untidy gait of one enormous dog
.
“Titus!” the voice implored in another loud whisper, followed quickly by “Bad dog!” as the footfalls turned to a rhythmic bumping.
“Woof!”
“Drat!”
Marcus jumped back as Titus slipped, tumbled, and crashed down the stairs, Miss Tisdale sliding down closely behind.
“A pleasure to see you, Miss Tisdale,” Marcus said with amusement, hiding a smile at the surprise on Miss Tisdale’s face.
She’d clearly slid nearly the entire length of the staircase on her bottom, landing with her printed walking dress pushed to her knees. Her attempt to stop herself before crashing into the rear of the big dog had her stretched out on the stair treads so that her head now rested on the fifth step from the bottom. Hairpins were scattered on the upper steps. What once was surely a presentable chignon was now reduced to a cascade of long shining auburn curls.
Marcus could not recollect ever witnessing a lady in such a state.
Nor could he recall being quite so aroused.
Her eyes went round as saucers as she surveyed the damage. “Lord Weston?!”
He bent to assist with her dress, though he secretly hoped to accidentally skim the creamy expanse of her leg in the process. “Is that a question, Miss Tisdale, or a proclamation?”
“My limbs!” she choked out, apparently in shock.
Marcus bent down so that they were face-to-face. “Miss Tisdale, is there something wrong with your legs?”
She reached for her skirt and awkwardly attempted to cover herself. “I cannot imagine what you must be thinking. I really—”
Marcus impulsively reached out and touched his forefinger to her lips, quieting her instantly. “Miss Tisdale, my only thought is for your safety.”
Her eyes, no longer saucers, had gone all dewy, and Marcus feared his ability to control his body’s urging. He took his finger from her soft mouth and held out his arm.
“Seems a rather dangerous way to amuse oneself, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked mildly as she grasped his arm and allowed him to pull her upright.
The moment she was on her feet, Miss Tisdale snatched her fingers away from Marcus’s arm and set about straightening her attire and hair. “You’d do better to ask Titus, Lord Weston, as I had very little to say in the matter. I typically make use of my feet when leaving Bennington House, rather than my—” She halted, her brow furrowing as she searched for the right word.
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