The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Hugh eyed the spoon warily. “What is Weston to you, Sarah?”

  “That’s hardly the point, Hugh,” Sarah replied in a heated tone, lowering her spoon awkwardly.

  Hugh looked to those who’d turned their gaze in hopes of capturing the two in an argument. He smiled, then laughed. “All right,” he began in a nonconsequential manner, “you have a point, I suppose. But the situation is what it is. Common sense will hardly change history, my dear.”

  Sarah reached for her own glass of claret and raised it in Hugh’s general direction. “Do not be so sure, Hugh,” she said, and then laughed gaily before taking a robust sip of the deep red liquid.

  “God help us all,” Hugh replied, reaching for his own glass and finishing it in one fell swoop.

  “What of Dixon? He seems a nasty piece of work, if you ask me.”

  It was well past midnight, and while Marcus suspected that Sully would rather be warming Cook’s bed than sharing a drink in the study with him, he needed to talk through the case.

  At least he was able to offer his valet the best brandy this side of the English Channel, Tisdale having sent four more bottles for Marcus’s drinking pleasure.

  Marcus admired the deep sheen of the brandy in the candlelight. “Nasty enough to turn traitor?”

  “More than enough—I feel it in my bones,” Sully offered, taking a drink from his own glass.

  Marcus nodded thoughtfully then reached to refill Sully’s glass. “I’ve tasked Marlowe with keeping an eye on the man. He’s yet to unearth anything useful, but that doesn’t mean nothing is there.”

  Sully leaned forward from his mahogany chair and propped his elbows on his knees. “And Sir Arthur?”

  “The man is liked and admired by his neighbors, loved by his family. Hardly a nasty streak in him such as the one to be found in Dixon. So the problem is motive.”

  “For money?” Sully offered, taking a long pull from his glass.

  Marcus mentally pictured Tisdale Manor. The home was on the small side, with few servants and slightly shabby, though this could all be attributed to Tisdale’s preferences as much as a lack of coin. “I think not, though it never hurts to be thorough. Ask around after the family’s financial state.”

  “For the love of brandy?” Sully paused and drained the glass. “It is damn good drink,” he finished, smiling widely.

  “True enough,” Marcus agreed. “And I suppose men have done many a foolish thing for love of one sort or another.”

  “At least the daughter’s making it easy enough on you.”

  “Your meaning?” Marcus asked, nearly sighing with relief as the potent alcohol loosened his tight muscles.

  Sully set down his glass then let out a low chuckle. “Well, she’s pretty enough, which always makes the job … how shall I put it, more pleasurable. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  The brandy’s effect suddenly lessened, the muscles in Marcus’s neck tightening. “She’s not a common whore, nor will I have you talking as if she is, Sully. Do I make myself clear?”

  Sully’s eyes widened in surprise at Marcus’s growled words, and he rubbed his face with both hands. “It’s late, my lord. I should be to bed.”

  Marcus had not meant to snap at Sully. His swift defense of Miss Tisdale had been unplanned and unexpected. “I apologize, Sully.”

  The valet shook his fist in mock outrage, a wide smile filling his face.

  “And whose bed might you be referring to?” Marcus continued with his own grin.

  Sully let out a throaty laugh and stood. “I’m a gentleman through and through. I’d no more kiss and tell than—”

  “Ach, be on with ya’, then,” Marcus interrupted, his burr thickening as the brandy took its hold.

  He watched Sully go, then turned his attention to the silver candelabra on his desk. The light from the six candles glowed, the flames flickering in the occasional draft through the open window.

  Marcus licked his thumb and forefinger and put out the first three beeswax candles, dampening their flame with quick, precise movements.

  Sir Arthur would be a fool to put his family in the path of danger. The Prince Regent was a buffoon, but he’d hardly allow a citizen of his realm to take part in such a scheme and live to tell about it.

  Marcus reached for the fourth and fifth tapers, extinguishing them as quickly as the first three.

  But if there was one thing Marcus had learned in his work with the Corinthians, it was that at times even seemingly ordinary men went out of their way to do the wrong thing.

  He stared into the light of the last lit candle, contemplatively. Do not play the fool, he thought to himself. You cannot afford to.

  “Thank you,” Lord Weston offered, smiling at Sarah’s mother as she offered him a cup of tea.

  Lenora accepted his words with frosty politeness, and then readied a second cup.

  Sarah fingered the corded edge of a burgundy velvet pillow and watched as Lord Weston ignored her mother’s rudeness, choosing instead to savor his first sip.

  “Perfectly brewed,” he commented, taking a second sip.

  Lenora stiffened, nearly spilling the tea as she handed a cup to her husband. “You’re too kind.”

  When news of Lord Weston’s impending visit had reached Lenora’s ears she’d been visibly upset, the blossoming friendship between her husband and the earl quite a predicament indeed.

  After all, he was the Errant Earl, which meant, of course, that Lenora was obligated to loathe the man. Yet, the deliciousness of sharing Lord Weston’s visit with her friends was a treat she could already taste. Sarah would have been mortified were she not too busy examining Lord Weston’s behavior. He was aware of Lenora’s dislike, yet he ignored it.

  She took a cup from her mother and settled back into her favorite chair, eyeing Lord Weston over the rim. No, she’d been wrong in her assessment. He did not ignore, but rather pressed his advantage where he could.

  The conversation flowed, occasionally demanding Sarah’s attention. But she held back in an attempt to further study Lord Weston.

  Much as he would in a game of chess, Sarah realized, Lord Weston thought five turns ahead of Lenora, reminding her of his extensive wealth when she dared to trot out something to do with Dixon, or dropping names of such influential London families that she was left speechless.

  Sarah could not say whether or not Lord Weston found Lenora’s treatment of him to be hurtful. She tried to discern something from his manner, but blast it, she could not.

  Regardless, he’d not sought escape—something Sarah was quite adept at doing.

  He finessed and quietly charmed, making it so that Lenora could not deny all that there was to recommend him.

  Quietly charming. Sarah sipped her tea and remembered that she’d thought the very same thing while watching Lord Weston at the Bennington dinner.

  In fact, she’d thought the very same thing when she’d leaned in and kissed him at Bennington House.

  The swift mental image of the moment flashed uninvited into Sarah’s mind. Her palms itched with eagerness. She dropped her cup, sending tea sloshing over the rim to pool upon the saucer.

  She pasted a smile on her face and willed her breathing to slow as she accepted a linen serviette from her mother.

  If only she knew what to do with the delicate linen square.

  An image of Lord Weston appeared yet again in her mind’s eye, only this time he was naked and reclining on a bed made up entirely in scarlet silk.

  Scarlet silk? Sarah rolled her eyes at such a garish image.

  Oh, he was tan everywhere. Down to—

  “Miss Tisdale?”

  “Oh!” She abruptly realized that Lord Weston was staring at her.

  He beckoned to her with one finger, crooking it in a most seductive manner.

  “Stop,” Sarah said suddenly, squeezing her eyes shut and willing the man to depart from her clearly feverish mind.

  Lenora’s clipped voice echoed in her ears. “Are you quite all right?
Perhaps you should rest, Sarah.”

  “I am perfectly fine,” Sarah replied, opening one eye and then the other, peering apprehensively at Lord Weston. He was fully dressed. Well, she thought with relief, that was a start anyway. “I simply forgot …”

  My mind? No, that won’t do.

  She peered about the room and down the hall, noting, with some relief, a discarded riding crop near the entryway.

  “Buckingham.”

  “Really, Sarah, hardly seems the time to mention—” Nigel began.

  “Buckingham?” Sarah’s mother and Lord Weston asked in unison, interupting the boy. Their faces held matching expressions of confusion.

  Sarah carefully set the cup and saucer down on the silver tray and rose from her chair. “Yes, Mr. Dixon’s bay. He arrived today and I want to be sure he’s settled in.”

  Lenora arched an eyebrow so forbiddingly that Sarah feared it might never again find its natural place on her mother’s face. “Another horse?”

  Oh, dear. Sarah had been so caught up in her brilliant plan to escape that she’d failed to remember one small, yet infinitely important detail.

  Bugger.

  Sir Arthur cleared his throat and stepped into the awful silence. “Yes, my dear, I feel certain I told you of Buckingham. Apparently Dixon suddenly decided he wanted nothing to do with the horse. It had nowhere else to go—”

  “It was my understanding that the enormous dog was the last of Mr. Dixon’s castoffs we would accept, was he not?” Lenora replied with a tight smile.

  Without realizing what she did, Sarah slowly backed out of the room, an action so natural in such situations that her body undertook it of its own accord.

  Only Lord Weston followed suit, the two stealthily creeping away as Sir Arthur searched for a reply.

  They’d very nearly reached the front door when Nigel noticed them. “Sarah, you can’t mean to drag Lord Weston to the barn?”

  Bloody bugger.

  “My leg is in need of a good stretch,” Lord Weston said in a normal tone, leaning ever so slightly to the right and rubbing carefully at his thigh. “I thought to accompany Miss Tisdale to check on Buckingham and ease my leg in the process.”

  Sir Arthur’s brow cleared as he ceased racking his brain for a rebuttal to his wife. He exhaled deeply and smiled his thanks at Marcus. “How kind of you, Lord Weston.”

  “And I’ll act as chaperone,” Nigel added with a wink, quickly crossing the entryway to stand next to Lord Weston.

  “Thank you, my boy,” Sir Arthur said hastily before disappearing toward his study.

  Lenora continued to stand in the same spot, as though trying to grasp what had just occurred. “Sarah … Sir Arthur …”

  But Sarah had already seized the opportunity and disappeared out the door, taking Nigel and Lord Weston with her.

  “It will be getting dark soon enough,” Lord Weston said warily as the three made their way across the lawn that separated the manor house from the outbuildings.

  “Sarah wanders about in the dark all the time—don’t you, Sarah?” Nigel stated in an utterly innocent tone.

  Sarah’s palm smacked him lightly on the back of the head. “Do behave, Nigel,” she replied, matching her irksome brother’s angelic voice.

  Nigel smiled beatifically at Sarah then promptly loped off toward the barn, leaving them to follow.

  Sarah huffed irritably. “I apologize for my brother, Lord Weston. He is …” She paused, thinking over all of the possible adjectives at her disposal.

  “A twelve-year-old boy,” Lord Weston finished for her.

  “Precisely.”

  His voice, deep and throaty, with a subtle hint of Scottish burr, was dangerous to Sarah’s peace of mind.

  Especially, she thought, the small piece of her mind that had taken up the habit of picturing the man naked.

  “May I beg your indulgence, Miss Tisdale,” he said, his hard, warm fingers closing over her bare wrist. “I could do with some support. Would you mind leading me?”

  To bed?

  To—

  This had to stop.

  Did he perspire at the sight of her? Was he struck dumb by the scent of her skin? Did he picture her naked on sheets of questionable origin?

  “Lord Weston,” she began, turning to face him.

  He was beautiful. And while Sarah had yet to puzzle out what her hopes were with regards to Lord Weston, she felt sure she most decidedly did not want her acquaintance with him to end with him running away.

  As it had with Sir Rupert Westmont.

  And Lord Chase.

  And Sir—Oh, bother, she chided herself, realizing that it was hardly worth tallying.

  “I would be happy to do so.” And with that, she took his arm in hers, turned toward the barn, and shut her mouth.

  “Welcome to the Tisdale Menagerie, my lord.”

  Nigel, accompanied by a tongue-lolling Titus, bowed low to Marcus, a mischievous grin lighting his face. “Chickens, pigs, a donkey, four horses, too many cats to count, three cows—”

  “That’s quite enough, Nigel,” his sister admonished with little heat. She walked toward the back of the barn, where the latest addition to the collection peered at them over his stall door.

  “So this is where you keep the brute,” Marcus teased, scratching Titus’s head. The stables where they stood were redolent with the scents of hay and leather. Several lanterns were burning, lighting the space with a golden glow. “I thought he most likely slept at the foot of your bed.”

  Nigel laughed good-naturedly. “The foot of the bed? If she’s lucky. Titus rather prefers Sarah’s bed.”

  “Nigel,” Sarah ground out. “Honestly, Lord Weston will think you’re telling the truth.”

  Marcus walked slowly down the center aisle, half expecting to encounter Noah himself. Indeed, chickens, pigs, an ancient donkey, three cows—

  “Good Lord, is that a peacock?” he asked, stopping to look at the large, colorful bird in the stall next to Buckingham’s.

  Sarah joined him, peering over the stall door at the bird sitting in the straw. “Yes, that’s Percival.”

  “Percival?”

  The bird rose as though responding to Marcus’s call.

  “Caw.”

  Marcus leaned forward. “What is he doing?”

  “Saying hello, I suppose,” Sarah answered, leaning in to get a better look.

  Percival regally walked toward the two, and then all of a sudden, in a flash of brilliant jeweled tones, he spread his tail feathers in a glorious fan.

  “Oh,” Sarah breathed.

  “What does that mean?” Marcus asked, turning to look at Sarah.

  Her eyes were wide. “I think he fancies you.”

  Nigel ran up to the stall door, pushing in between Marcus and Sarah. “He’s never done that before.”

  “I know!”

  “Does it mean what I think—”

  “What?” Marcus said, growing more confused by the moment. “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  Percival was now strutting back and forth across the stall. “Caw.”

  “Now,” Marcus growled.

  Sarah cleared her throat. “Have you never seen a peacock before, Lord Weston?”

  “Only on my plate, Miss Tisdale,” he answered truthfully, and he could have sworn that Percival flinched at his statement.

  “Peacocks display their feathers only for mating purposes,” she said simply. Nigel chuckled, Sarah smacked him, and the sound startled the bird.

  “Caw!”

  “Percival has not seen fit to show his feathers to anyone since his arrival nearly three months ago,” Nigel said, his mirth under control. For the moment.

  “I’m honored, I think,” Marcus replied skeptically, regarding the bird with a wary eye.

  Sarah smiled before turning back toward Buckingham. The warmth of her curving mouth and amused eyes struck him speechless for a moment.

  “And where do you think you’re off to?”
Sarah asked.

  Marcus gathered his wits, looking over his shoulder in time to witness Nigel creeping toward the door.

  “Answer your sister,” Marcus pressed.

  Nigel turned back to face the two. “Not you as well,” he said to Marcus, looking utterly betrayed.

  “You laughed at the bird,” Marcus offered in explanation. “I owe you one. Now, I believe you also owe your sister an answer.”

  “Just a spot of fun with the boys, Sarah,” he replied sheepishly.

  Marcus looked at Sarah, whose lips were pursed adorably, though he suspected the effect was unintentional.

  “Fun?”

  “Oh, all right,” Nigel responded, waggling his eyebrows. “It’s dangerous, bloodcurdling fun,” he said dramatically, “the details of which are hardly appropriate for such delicate ears.”

  His sister rolled her eyes. “Off with you, then.” She made a shooing gesture, using both hands. “Take Titus with you.”

  “I’ll just lighten the kitchen of Cook’s apple turnovers, then be on my way.” Nigel sketched an awkward bow and sped away, disappearing out the barn door with Titus on his heels.

  “What was that all about?” Marcus asked, disguising his interest with mild amusement.

  Sarah patted Buckingham’s large head. “Nothing, really. Nigel and his friends fancy themselves smugglers.”

  Marcus adopted a look of disinterest and joined her at the bay’s stall. “Smugglers?”

  “Yes. It’s all far less romantic than they make it out to be.”

  The horse sniffed cautiously at Marcus’s fingers when he held out his hand. “A bit dangerous, wouldn’t you agree?” Marcus asked casually.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said distractedly as she watched Buckingham slowly accept Marcus. “From what I gather, Charles only employs the boys for minor errands and such.”

  “You know the smugglers by name?” Marcus asked, his years as a Corinthian allowing him to make the interrogation seem as innocent as casual conversation.

  Sarah held out her hand, palm flat, for the horse’s perusal. “Let us just say that Nigel is not the most tight-lipped of smugglers,” she replied, an affectionate smile curving her lips.