The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  He hesitated, as though to do as she asked would cost him.

  “Up,” Sarah insisted firmly.

  He finally tipped his head back and raised his gaze to the sky, his hands propped on the rug behind him for support.

  Sarah did the same, sighing with pleasure at the sheer quantity of twinkling heavenly bodies. “Now, would you not agree that an opera singer can hardly hold a candle to such as this?”

  “I suppose not,” he agreed without enthusiasm.

  “Lord Weston,” Sarah exclaimed with surprise, turning her head to fix him with an assessing stare. “You’ve need of me far more than I first believed.”

  He met her gaze, an appreciative male smile curving his lips. “And why is that, Miss Tisdale?”

  “Well, you’ve clearly lost your mind if you cannot muster a suitable amount of excitement for all of this,” she declared, gesturing to the setting. “Really, your mother must have instilled in you some love for the country and its pleasures, did she not?”

  His smile disappeared, his features taking on a somber cast.

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah said quickly. Clearly, her spontaneous comment had struck a nerve. “It’s just that—well, I cannot imagine a lovelier place than Lulworth.”

  “Do you remember what I told you, Miss Tisdale?” A brief smile eased the stern set of his jaw as quickly as it had appeared. “Never apologize. My mother acted with her heart when she married my father and she paid the price. The whole of Lulworth never forgave her—which made it that much harder for me to appreciate the district.”

  Sarah wanted desperately to reach out to him. To stroke his golden hair until the tension apparent at his temples eased. To set right what so many before her had clearly made wrong.

  “Was it easier for your parents in Scotland?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap to keep from reaching for him.

  “Have you ever been to the Highlands, Miss Tisdale?” Marcus asked, continuing to stare at the stars.

  “No, though I wish I could say differently,” Sarah answered honestly.

  He shifted, wincing as he stretched his injured leg. “It’s wild—beautiful, to be sure, but as rough and wild a land as you’ll find. I’m afraid being half a Highlander is hardly being a Highlander at all.”

  The intimacy of their conversation made her ache for a physical connection, and Sarah’s fingers itched to touch him. “And so to London you went,” she confirmed, sympathy infusing her voice. “Has it become your home?”

  “As much as anyplace else,” he replied, though his words lacked conviction.

  She could not fight it anymore. She unclasped her hands and reached for one of his. Her fingers felt small and slim entwined with his warm, large ones. She gripped his hand tightly in an unconscious bid of support.

  “Lord Weston, you must come and see!” her father called enthusiastically.

  Marcus released her hand gently and rose. “Have we found a star?” he asked dryly, his usual demeanor returned.

  “Not just any star.” Sarah’s father clapped Marcus on the back with infectious good cheer. “Here,” he offered, gesturing for Marcus to look through the telescope.

  Sarah sat very still, letting the light breeze cool her heated cheeks.

  The armor of affable charm and witty humor had lowered for a moment, and she felt she’d glimpsed the real Marcus. But then, the shield had instantly risen once again and he’d retreated behind it with such speed that Sarah was momentarily disoriented. She found it necessary to breathe deeply, as though she’d run across the meadow and back without stopping.

  What might he have said to her if her father had not interrupted? His eyes—oh, his eyes. Her body ached from the raw emotion she’d glimpsed for one brief moment burning in his green eyes.

  And right then she knew it: He could break her heart.

  A loud snuffle sounded much too close to her ear, followed by a damp swipe from an altogether too enthusiastic tongue.

  “Titus,” she chided, her arms automatically encircling the big dog in an affectionate hug.

  “Is Nigel with him?” asked her father, still intent on peering up at the night sky.

  Sarah looked back toward the house but saw no sign of a lantern bobbing toward them along the darkened path. “I’m afraid not.”

  She gave Titus a loving squeeze then used his broad back to steady herself as she stood.

  “Was the boy to join us?” Marcus asked as he continued to look through the lens.

  “Oh, yes,” Sir Arthur confirmed, fussing with the telescope and making minute adjustments to the supports. “Normally Nigel would not miss a night such as this—the moonlight is perfect.”

  “I think he just needs a bit of time, is all,” Sarah explained reassuringly.

  She could have added that Nigel had, as of yet, not left the house after dark since Jasper died but decided against revealing the fact. She didn’t want to worry her father further.

  “Has he resumed his visits to the cove after dark?” Marcus asked as he relinquished the telescope.

  “No—nor will he. I’ll not allow such activities again,” Sarah’s father said firmly, a thread of worry shading his voice as he bent to the eyepiece.

  “I think that’s a wise choice on your part.”

  “Yes, well …” Sarah’s father paused, and then cleared his throat. “Give me a moment, won’t you? I think a small adjustment will bring both Ursa Major and Minor into view.”

  “Is there news?” Sarah murmured anxiously when Marcus pulled her arm through his and they strolled across the grass.

  Titus let out a low bark, hefting himself up and lumbering after them.

  “Interesting choice in chaperones, Miss Tisdale.” Marcus lifted a brow, his mouth quirked with amusement.

  Sarah tugged him to a halt and faced him. “Please, my lord.”

  “This is not a game,” he admonished, all amusement gone.

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” Sarah ground out in an angry whisper. “With my father nearly reduced to tears—and not for the first time today. Every villager in Lulworth is terrified. If there’s something that can be done I’ll not wait a second longer.”

  “Dinna fash, woman.” The words were a low, rumbled command, his Scottish burr revealing itself once more. “I asked a few questions at the wake,” he began again, the fine English lilt returning. “It seems that a number of the men that Nigel mentioned are not known in Lulworth.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “A few of the locals.”

  Sarah nodded. “I’m glad they were helpful.”

  “And I’ve you to thank for that,” Marcus acknowledged.

  The breathless sensation returned and Sarah bit at the inside of her cheek. “I think your generosity made quite an impression all on its own.”

  “I would not have been welcome at Jasper’s wake if not for your open support and friendship.”

  Sarah considered Marcus’s reasoning. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “There, now was that so hard?” he pressed, leaning in until his breath caressed the shell of Sarah’s ear.

  “You’ve no idea,” she said, pleased she could still remain honest, even when the man was so disturbingly near.

  “I think I’ve finally solved the problem,” Sir Arthur called, his timing as impeccable as ever.

  Marcus turned Sarah to walk back toward her father, Titus trotting behind.

  “We make a good team, do we not?” Sarah asked, a sudden sense of exhilaration filling her.

  Marcus looked down at her, his small smile returning. “We do, indeed, Miss Tisdale.”

  Marcus rode as close to the edge of the cliffs as he could, slowing to peer down the rough path that led to the cove below.

  No light gleamed from a bonfire on the sandy shore, though that hardly meant the smuggling activities had ceased. More than likely, casks of wine, bolts of silk, and the Lord only knew what else were making their way either across the water from Calais or by land to London
itself, where the items would be sold for a handsome profit.

  Marcus surveyed the sea, stretching dark and unending toward the hidden shoreline of France.

  Sir Arthur’s firm refusal to allow Nigel any further participation in the local smuggling game had made Marcus wonder.

  He could swear Sir Arthur had expressed guilt.

  The question was, what, exactly, did the man have to feel guilty over?

  Pokey’s ears pricked up and he swung his head to the left just as a rider emerged from the woods.

  “Marlowe.” Marcus reined the Thoroughbred around to meet his fellow agent.

  Marlowe slowed his bay and pulled him to a halt. “Weston,” he replied good-naturedly. “You grow grimmer each time I see you. Isn’t the sea air good for your constitution?”

  “You forget, I’m attending house parties and country dances while you’re gadding about the county,” Marcus said in a mockingly bitter tone.

  “Jealous?” Marlowe asked, his grin big enough for Marcus to readily see in the moonlight.

  “Of course—though I do enjoy the occasional jig.”

  Marlowe laughed. “I’d pay good coin to see you dance a jig.”

  “Give me the information I need to close this case and I’ll happily oblige,” Marcus assured the Corinthian.

  Marlowe fumbled in his saddlebag. “Turns out the boy’s list includes some interesting frogs.”

  “Meaning?” Marcus pressed, leaning forward in his saddle.

  “You start with Smith,” he began. “A likely enough character—fisherman by trade, smuggler by necessity. There’s a few more of his ilk. Then the list takes a turn.”

  Marcus recalled the contents of the boy’s neatly written note. “What of the Frenchmen—Chenard, Boutin, and DuBois? Nigel made it clear he wasn’t allowed near them—he didn’t even know their first names.”

  “Hardly surprising if they’re the men I believe them to be,” Marlowe replied.

  “Napoleon’s men?”

  “Not just any of Napoleon’s men, no. These three, according to our sources, report directly to de Caulain-court.”

  “Impossible.” If Napoleon’s valued minister of foreign affairs was involved, the situation was far more serious indeed.

  “Not according to our contact,” Marlowe countered, “and I’d trust him with my life.”

  Marcus considered Marlowe’s assessment, one not made lightly by any Corinthian. “But why would men at that level chance crossing the English Channel?”

  “The Orlov emeralds,” Marlowe said succinctly.

  “So you think it’s true, then? That they’re here?”

  Marlowe nodded grimly. “Rumors are floating that Napoleon’s patience has run out. Once he secures Russia’s cooperation, he plans to take the rest of Western Europe in one fell swoop. The emeralds are all that he needs to move forward.”

  The wind picked up off the water, ruffling Pokey’s mane as Marcus mulled this over. It would take a fortune the likes of which no monarchy had ever spent to secure such an army and the munitions necessary to win such a victory.

  A fortune one would hardly entrust in the hands of just anyone.

  “I don’t suppose Nigel’s list included those responsible for collecting the emeralds?”

  Marlowe chuckled. “Now, that would take all of the fun out of it, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Spoken like a true Corinthian,” Marcus said, his mind already turning to likely suspects. “Any news of Dixon?”

  “Other than that he’s a smug, annoying bastard?”

  Marcus acknowledged this with a dry tilt of his head.

  “Hardly,” Marlowe admitted, “though I’ll continue to keep an eye on him.”

  “Do that.”

  Marlowe shifted in his saddle as his mount stirred restlessly. “Of course.”

  “Good,” Marcus replied, patting Pokey on the neck. “Keep me apprised.” He turned the big Thoroughbred back toward Lulworth Castle, kneeing him into a fast walk.

  “I’ll hold you to that jig,” Marlowe said.

  “I’d expect nothing less,” Marcus called over his shoulder, his lips curling into a grin as the sound of Marlowe’s laughter was carried away on the wind.

  The Wilmingtons were not the poorest of Lulworth’s residents. Their snug cottage, located just at the end of a rutted lane, was small, to be sure, the family of a fisherman simply glad to have a roof without leaks and fresh fish for the table.

  But as Sarah reined in Buckingham, she could not help but think of the happiness that had once inhabited the house. A small impromptu Twelfth Night celebration last year when she’d brought a goose had truly been one of the most enjoyable times she’d spent in the company of her fellow villagers.

  She couldn’t have known the sadness that would befall the family, nor imagine the emptiness that now filled the once-cozy home.

  “Are you all right?”

  Lord Weston had somehow passed Sarah, though she hadn’t been aware of it.

  She quietly clucked at the gelding and he picked up his pace. “Tell me …” Sarah reined Buckingham next to Marcus’s Thoroughbred. “Is this always so hard?”

  He looked into her eyes, confusion in his. “Excuse me?”

  “Comforting those who’ve lost so much.”

  Lord Weston turned to look at the cottage down the lane. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t answer you. This is the first time I’ve done such a thing.”

  “Really?” Sarah asked quietly. “You’ve proven to be quite a comfort to the Wilmingtons. I assumed you had some experience with such things. Perhaps while in Scotland?”

  “Dealings with the clansmen were left to my father. They hardly wanted my or my mother’s pity,” he replied, the simplicity of his delivery belying the blow of his words.

  Sarah reached across and placed a hand on his arm. “Their loss is Lulworth’s gain, my lord.”

  “I’m not certain of that,” he answered in a low tone, his eyes shuttering once more.

  “I am,” Sarah offered as his hand reached to cover hers. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought that perhaps the man had taken her words to heart.

  Small steps, she assured herself. Small steps.

  “Well, from your lips to God’s ears, Miss Tisdale,” he drawled, taking her hand from his arm and setting it lightly on her horse’s reins. “Though with you on my side, I don’t know that I’ll be in need of divine intervention.”

  Sarah gave a small smile in response, and they walked their horses on, soon reaching the cottage, where a small gig and horse stood. The dappled gray horse took in their arrival with mild interest, and then returned to munching on the long blades of grass that jutted out between the rocks in a well-worn path.

  “Why, that is Hercules, Mrs. Rathbone’s horse, I believe.”

  Lord Weston swung out of the saddle, knotted his reins through the iron ring set into a rough post, and walked to Sarah’s mount. “You do not sound surprised to find him—or Mrs. Rathbone—here.”

  Sarah raised a brow and gave him a pert look. “What, precisely, might you be suggesting?”

  He caught her waist and lifted her from the saddle, lowering her slowly down the length of him. “You are determined, Miss Sarah Tisdale.”

  Sarah began to perspire. “You’ve no idea, my lord.”

  The cottage door opened and Mrs. Rathbone appeared, an empty wicker basket in her hands. “Sarah, so good of you to come,” she said in greeting, turning her attention to Lord Weston.

  He released Sarah’s waist and bowed. “Mrs. Rathbone.”

  The woman smiled hesitantly and adjusted her poke bonnet, clearly pleased that the earl remembered her. “Lord Weston.”

  Sarah unclasped the silver buckles on her worn leather saddlebag. “Yes, well, Lord Weston insisted that we pay our respects and offer our assistance. Quite thoughtful of him, would you not agree?”

  Though Mrs. Rathbone was a confidante of Lenora’s, her amiable nature always prompted her to have a good opinion
of everyone until proven otherwise.

  Besides, she was, by far, the busiest gossip to be found in the county.

  Yesterday, when Sarah had overheard Mrs. Rathbone speaking of her plans to visit the Wilmingtons, she’d hooted with delight—then been obliged to blame her outburst on Titus having learned to roll over. Which he could not actually do, but the women had returned to their talk, all the same.

  “Yes indeed. Very good of you, Lord Weston,” the woman agreed genuinely as she untied Hercules.

  Sarah retrieved the food for the Wilmingtons, stifling a smile of success.

  “Please, allow me,” Lord Weston offered, taking the reins from Mrs. Rathbone and assisting her onto the bench seat.

  She settled her skirts about her and took the reins back. “Lord Weston, will we see you at the Bennington Ball?”

  “I wouldn’t think of missing it, Mrs. Rathbone,” he answered, reaching for her hand and landing a chaste kiss on her kid glove.

  “Excellent,” she murmured, then gently nudged Hercules forward down the rutted road.

  Lord Weston offered Sarah his arm and led her up the path to the rough-hewn door. “I suppose you’re rather proud of yourself?”

  “Obviously,” she replied simply, and then rapped firmly on the thick panel.

  The door opened slowly, its weight scraping against the worn stone floor within. Emily Wilmington’s solemn face appeared, her tight-set mouth loosening into a welcoming, though sad, smile when she saw Sarah. “Miss Tisdale.”

  “Mrs. Wilmington, may we come in?” Lord Weston asked politely.

  The woman looked confused for a moment, then craned her neck to peer behind Sarah, giving a start of surprise at the sight of him. “My lord, I didn’t see you there,” she apologized, bobbing an inelegant curtsy in her serviceable brown dress. “Please, won’t you both come in?”

  She opened the door as wide as it would go, revealing almost the entire interior of the cottage.

  Sarah stepped over the threshold, noting the disarray in the usually neat home. Clothing in need of mending overflowed a wicker basket near a washstand. Dishes from the morning meal still lay piled atop the wooden table. A few logs sat on the unswept hearth.

  Sarah nearly gaped at the scene, so unlike what she’d witnessed on every other visit to the cottage. She caught herself barely in time and managed a smile instead.