The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  “I beg your pardon for the untidiness,” Emily said, closing the door behind them and shutting out what little light there was to be had. “I’m afraid everything has got away from me of late.”

  “It is we who must beg your pardon for arriving unannounced, Mrs. Wilmington,” Sarah said. She held up the hamper. “We brought you some food.”

  Mrs. Wilmington blinked, her eyes glistening. She’d been crying when they’d arrived. Sarah suddenly felt like an interloper, trespassing on someone else’s pain. It didn’t seem to matter that she was there to pay her respects.

  Mrs. Wilmington just stared at them for a moment, and then, as if a tiny piece of her awoke, she gave a little jolt and hurried to the table to make room for Sarah’s hamper. “Thank you,” she said, only allowing her voice to break when her back was turned. “I greatly appreciate the kindness.”

  It took Sarah a moment to realize she was referring to the food. An awful silence hung over the room, and Sarah instinctively began to fill it with idle chatter. “Of course,” she said. “it is the least we could do, under the circumstances …”

  She swallowed. That had not been the right thing to say. “I do hope you enjoy the chicken,” she began again, setting the hamper down, “and two pies.”

  Mrs. Wilmington began to scurry about the room, trying to tidy up, filling her arms with shirts and utensils, crockery and the like, until the pile mounted as high as her chin.

  “Allow me,” Lord Weston said gently, reaching for every last item in her arms and stacking each efficiently in his own. He walked to the corner near the stove, where a large basket sat empty, and slowly lowered the things in, covering the lot of it with a wool blanket that had been slung over a rocking chair. “I may not be the most skilled when it comes to housework, but I am very creative.” He smiled, his twinkling eyes inviting Mrs. Wilmington to join him.

  Her shoulders relaxed a bit, her mouth faintly turning up at the corners. “I wish someone would have showed me that trick years ago, my lord.”

  “Ah, there you see—we men do come in handy on occasion,” he declared, dusting his hands together as though he’d just finished a hard day’s labor.

  Mrs. Wilmington gestured for him to take a worn but respectable upholstered chair near the hearth. “May I offer you a cup of tea?”

  “Mrs. Wilmington, allow me to put the kettle on,” Sarah urged, gently placing her hands on the woman’s shoulders and steering her toward the chair opposite Lord Weston.

  He stood politely, taking his seat once Mrs. Wilmington was comfortably settled in her chair. “And where is Mr. Wilmington today?”

  Sarah had wondered the very same, surprised that the man had not returned from the day’s fishing.

  “At the Boot, I suppose,” Mrs. Wilmington said cheerlessly. “It’s been hard for him here—without Jasper.”

  Sarah set the water to boil, and then opened the calico curtains wider to allow more light from the small windows to spill into the cottage. “And hard for you as well,” she offered consolingly.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Wilmington agreed, her jaw tensing as she strained to control her emotions. “But it’s different for Jacob. He feels … Well, he thinks he could have prevented it, you see.”

  The kettle let out a low whistle, demanding Sarah’s attention.

  “It must be very difficult—for both of you, of course. But it is unlikely that your husband could have prevented Jasper’s death,” Lord Weston said gently.

  Sarah willed herself to remain silent, deftly preparing the cups as she waited for Mrs. Wilmington’s response.

  “No,” Mrs. Wilmington said, shaking her head with exhausted sorrow. “Something had changed. Jasper told his father nearly a month past about this new crew of smugglers—all fancy and French.”

  When she didn’t say anything more right away, Sarah stepped forward to hand her a cup of tea. Mrs. Wilmington nodded as she took it, then looked down at the steam rising from the surface. “Jasper said they were making people nervous,” she continued, still not drinking. “Making demands.”

  Sarah handed a cup to Lord Weston, then pulled up a chair and sat next to Mrs. Wilmington, her own cup left neglected on the table. “Demands?” she murmured, prompting the woman to continue.

  “Smugglers in these parts, as you know, Miss Tisdale, don’t usually care who knows what they’re hauling. But this lot …” Mrs. Wilmington sighed, her somber face troubled.

  Sarah leaned forward, ready to press further, but Lord Weston quietly cleared his throat, giving her a look of warning when Sarah glanced his way.

  “They were different?” Lord Weston asked, sipping his tea and appearing only politely interested.

  Mrs. Wilmington began to stir her tea. “They were. Very particular about who opened the goods.” Her spoon began to move more quickly, and by the time she spoke again, the tea was splashing from her cup. “Young Michael Higgins’s curiosity got the best of him one night and he busted open one of the boxes when he thought no one was looking. Got a sound beating that night, he did.”

  Sarah finally picked up her cup from the table. “Did Michael tell anyone what was in the box?”

  “He told Jasper,” she answered, her tone changing. “Jewels and coin enough to ‘fill the sea’ is what he said.”

  “Do you believe Jasper may have tried to see the treasure for himself?” Lord Weston asked, a mixture of authority and acceptance in his voice.

  Mrs. Wilmington finally took a drink of her tea, her eyes squeezing shut as she did so. “I think he did more than just look—if I know my boy, he tried to take a bit of it for himself.

  “Jacob told him to leave well enough alone. But Jasper was never one for listening. And now he’s dead.”

  She stood abruptly and carried her cup to the crude dresser.

  “Mrs. Wilmington,” Lord Weston began, rising to join her. “Did Jasper ever mention any names? Someone you and Jacob may not have recognized, outside of the Frenchmen?”

  She set her cup and saucer into a washtub then took Lord Weston’s from his outstretched hand and added it to the water as well. “Only one—a nobleman from the next county over. Fordham was the name. Jacob asked around about the man but no one knew anything.”

  “I see.”

  “Lord Weston, I didn’t tell the constable any of this. It was clear he’d decided that Jasper was guilty of something—as if his death was—”

  She stopped, her earlier anxiety and fear visibly returning as her shoulders sagged.

  “We’ll find your son’s killer, I assure you, Mrs. Wilmington,” Marcus promised with quiet authority. “You have my word.”

  “He’s of no use to us now,” Marcus said bitterly, staring down at Fordham’s corpse.

  The innkeeper let out a loud belch. “Oh, Christ, not another one. I’ll send for the constable.”

  Marlowe pushed the man out into the dimly lit corridor, dropping several coins into the unshaved brute’s hand. “Give us fifteen minutes, won’t you?”

  “Fifteen minutes and not a minute more—I’ve got paying customers in need of rooms.”

  Marlowe slammed the door in the man’s face and turned back to Marcus.

  “No need to be rude,” the innkeeper bellowed as he trudged off down the hall.

  “Sod off,” Marlowe replied.

  Marcus shot his fellow Corinthian a sardonic glance. “Are you always this subtle?” he asked, using his booted foot to prod the corpse and roll him onto his front.

  “Always,” Marlowe assured him, just as the body stilled.

  Congealed blood circled a wound in the upper left side of Fordham’s back.

  “Pistol?” Marlowe asked, dipping to his knees for a closer view.

  “Too noisy,” Marcus answered, looking around the body. “A knife wound, though the killer must have taken the weapon with him.”

  Marlowe turned his attention to the room. “What was a man of Fordham’s position doing in the Cock’s Crow?”

  Tucked out of the way dire
ctly off the quay in Bournemouth, the Cock’s Crow was hardly a likely haunt for the nobility. No more than a warren of filthy rooms located over the equally dirty tavern below, the establishment’s typical patronage looked to include whores, their customers, and those eager for a place to hide.

  “My best guess is that he was lured here,” Marcus answered, rolling the body back with his toe. “How did you find him?”

  “Superior investigative skill,” Marlowe offered.

  Marcus reached into Fordham’s coat pocket. “Blonde or brunette?”

  “Both.”

  “Naturally,” Marcus answered.

  Marlowe exhaled loudly. “Did you happen to see a gray and white dog out front when you arrived?”

  “The looks of a greyhound, only smaller?” Marcus asked, lifting a folded piece of foolscap from Fordham’s pocket and standing.

  Marlowe nodded, standing. “A servant identified the dog as belonging to Fordham. The beast follows his master everywhere, apparently.”

  “And was it the blonde or the brunette?”

  Marlowe snatched the foolscap from Marcus’s hand. “Just so we’re clear, I do indeed possess superior investigative skills—and it was the brunette.”

  Marcus feigned concern. “Carmichael never mentioned how—” he paused for effect “—sensitive you are, Marlowe.”

  “Bastard,” Marlowe muttered, unfolding and reading the note. “Nothing more here than a request that Fordham come to this fine establishment—date, time, but no signature.”

  Marcus gave the deplorable room one last assessing look before stepping over the body and stalking toward the door. “It’s a start. See if your source knows who delivered the letter. And search the room one last time. There may be something of use that we’ve missed.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Marlowe answered sarcastically.

  Marcus opened the door and stepped out into the hall, pulling it shut behind him.

  “Sensitive, my ass,” he heard Marlowe mutter aloud, and he could not help but smile.

  Marcus made his way quickly down the shadowed corridor, taking the narrow stairs with minimal pain in his leg.

  He paused in the tavern, searching for the innkeeper. The lumbering fool stood behind the counter, near the back, shoveling stew of some sort into his mouth as he carried on a colorful conversation with a patron.

  Assured that Marlowe would have sufficient time to complete the task upstairs, Marcus bid farewell to the hellhole and made his way outside to where Pokey was tied.

  The horse snorted the moment he caught sight of Marcus.

  “Do not start with me,” Marcus said sternly, untying and slipping the leather reins from the iron ring set into the rough wooden post. “Your reputation may have suffered from appearing outside the Cock’s Crow, but you’d do well to remember that it is I who had to venture inside.”

  As Marcus set his boot in the metal stirrup and swung into the saddle, he spied the little dog curled up against the rough wall of the alehouse.

  The dog appeared bereft, his thin tail beating dejectedly upon the worn dirt.

  “You’re an idiot,” Marcus muttered to himself. Pokey shifted in agreement.

  Marcus stepped down from the saddle.

  He looped the reins over his arm and ducked under Pokey’s neck, walking to the thin canine.

  “Well,” he addressed the dog, “would you like to come with me?” Marcus bent his knees, leaning over to hold his hand out for him to sniff.

  The dog instantly rose, his slim pink tongue darting out to lick Marcus.

  Marcus gently settled his free hand on the dog’s head, rubbing the silken, short fur between his ears. The dog leaned into Marcus’s touch, his eyes closing with delight.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Marcus said with a satisfied grin.

  Reaching around the dog’s midsection, he lifted the lean canine into his arms and turned back to his horse. “Pokey, meet …” He paused, eyeing the dog. “Bones.”

  The chestnut sniffed the dog from head to tail, then resumed looking bored.

  Bones shook and buried his head in Marcus’s armpit.

  “Come now, if Pokey had wanted to eat you he would have done so already,” Marcus assured the dog, prying him from his chest.

  Marcus once again placed his foot in the iron stirrup and lifted himself into the saddle, the little dog balanced in his arms.

  Once over his initial shock, the dog settled into his makeshift mode of transportation nicely, his lean head resting on Marcus’s thigh.

  “Pokey, Bones here will require a slower pace. Understood?”

  Marcus could have sworn that the chestnut rolled his eyes.

  It wasn’t that Sarah was angry.

  She stood impatiently in the middle of Cove Road, the sun just finishing what was surely a glorious setting, but she’d hardly had the patience to turn about and enjoy it.

  Perhaps it was that she was angry, though she feared she really had no right to be.

  She’d learned from Lord Weston’s stable boy, whom she’d met on the road into town, who’d heard from Mary the cook when he’d ventured in to break his fast, who’d in turn been told directly by Lord Weston’s valet, that the earl had left for Bournemouth at the break of dawn.

  “This,” Sarah insisted out loud, “is precisely why he needs me.” If their roles had been reversed, he’d hardly have possessed the connections necessary to have discovered Sarah’s whereabouts.

  Sarah had a niggling suspicion that he’d have simply asked her father, who, in truth, had become quite attached to the man. Marcus’s interest in both brandy and astronomy had made him irresistible to the baronet.

  Sarah kicked at a stone in the dirt road. She was growing more irritated by the second.

  A horse and rider appeared in the distance and Sarah squinted her eyes in an effort to see.

  They drew nearer, the horse’s hooves raising a small dust cloud close behind.

  Sarah recognized the massive chestnut’s build, and then the rider, his golden hair tousled from a long ride. She was delighted to see he wore a small smile.

  Which only irritated her more.

  “Miss Tisdale,” Lord Weston said, as he drew the horse to a stop. “How lovely to see you. Here, in the middle of the road. At sunset. In the middle of the road.”

  “How dare you,” Sarah hissed.

  His eyebrows arched in inquiry. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You cantered off to Bournemouth without so much as one word to me.”

  Lord Weston dismounted. Sarah stood so close to Pokey that Marcus loomed over her when he turned to face her, the lapels of his riding coat nearly brushing the bodice of her gown.

  “We had an agreement,” Sarah ground out. “An understanding. You were to help me and I was to—”

  “Miss Tisdale,” he interrupted, so near that Sarah felt his words stir the curls at her temple. “I was simply protecting you.”

  “Protecting me? I am the one meant to protect you, Lord Weston.” Sarah bristled with offended pride. “I know who can be trusted in this county and who can—”

  “Fordham’s dead,” Marcus said bluntly. “Stabbed in the back by, I can only assume, someone involved in the smuggling scheme.”

  Shocked, Sarah could only stare at his grim face. She was too stunned to speak.

  “And, with all due respect, you were never meant to protect me,” he added with finality.

  Sarah shoved her fear down deep inside and instead gave vent to her anger at his dismissal of her participation in their partnership.

  “I am just as capable as any man when it comes to such things, Lord Weston, and you’d do well to not forget that.” And with that, she rolled up her fist and punched him in the center of his waistcoat, just above his watch chain.

  “Awa, ye crabbit besom.” He sucked in a breath, his burr thickening his deep voice.

  And then she kissed him. Cupped his annoying, frustrating, much-too-dear face with both hands and pressed her lips
to his.

  It was not artful, as she’d hardly had enough practice to become an expert, but it was certainly enthusiastic.

  She pressed herself against him, the curves of her breasts flattening against the planes of his hard chest, her nipples tightening with excitement.

  Sliding her arms around his neck, she tugged him closer and twined her fingers in his soft, golden hair.

  For a moment, he didn’t react. As if shocked into immobility, his lips failed to mold to hers and his arms hung loosely at his sides.

  But Sarah had dreamed of this for too long. There were so many things she’d wondered about, puzzled over, daydreamed of—and with anger and sheer excitement fueling her actions, it didn’t occur to her to stop. His lips were warm and firm against hers. She inhaled his scent and instantly needed to know if he tasted as delicious as he smelled. She parted her lips, the tip of her tongue tracing the seam of his mouth.

  With a muttered curse, Marcus wrapped her in his arms and pressed her even more tightly to him. His lips parted and he sucked the tip of her tongue with sensual greed, coaxing her deeper.

  Sarah instinctively pressed nearer, the cove of her hips cradling the harder angles of his.

  He groaned and swung her into his arms, carrying her away from the lane and into the woods until they were out of sight of any chance passerby. He set her on her feet under an oak and pressed her back against the thick trunk.

  “You are playing with fire, woman,” he whispered, his voice deeper, rasping with arousal. He trailed his lips down the arch of her throat and lower, until his mouth reached the upper swell of her breasts just above the low neckline of her lace-trimmed bodice.

  She didn’t protest when he tugged her gown lower, air cooling her hot flesh until his warm hand closed over her breast. For a brief moment, she panicked and her hands gripped his biceps. “Tell me you want me as much as I want you,” she demanded, her voice husky with desire.

  “More,” he growled, meeting her gaze with his. The heat in his eyes scorched, aroused, and reassured her. His mouth closed over the tip of her breast and he sucked, drawing the sensitive nipple into the wet heat of his mouth.