The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  “You too, young man,” Lady Colby yapped, snapping her fingers. “A husband’s arm is most useful in these situations.”

  “I agree with Lady Colby; you should rest, Claire,” Sarah chimed in, standing back so that Gregory and Claire might pass. “And eat. A lot.”

  Her friend paused to fix Sarah with a set smile, her eyes narrowing with threat. “This is not the end of our conversation.”

  “Refreshment! The woman needs refreshment!” Sarah said loudly, her voice infused with concern.

  Lord Colby, who’d just arrived with a glass, jumped, spilling the contents down the front of his brown coat.

  “Colby! Do be careful,” Lady Colby scolded before turning her attention back to Claire and her husband. “Come, come. Don’t dawdle.”

  “Let’s not keep the woman waiting,” Gregory urged, gently helping Claire follow in Lady Colby’s wake.

  Sarah watched the crowd disperse, Marcus remaining at her side.

  “What did you do?” he murmured as he took hold of her elbow.

  His warm hand on her bare skin had Sarah involuntarily licking her lips. “You must understand, it takes very little to upset Claire.”

  He nodded solemnly, though a brilliant grin appeared upon his mouth.

  “You practiced that smile as a boy, didn’t you?” Sarah asked, leaning into his side though she knew she should not. “You used it at school too, I would imagine.”

  “Yes,” he confirmed, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat. “Shocked?”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Hardly. You men are as resourceful as any woman on earth. Shocked?” she countered.

  “By you? Never.”

  “Really?” She eyed the crowd as it buzzed about Claire and Lady Colby. “Claire screamed because I told her of my deflowering. Is that the correct term? My virginity is still int—”

  “I stand corrected,” Lord Weston interrupted, steering her toward the edge of the meadow.

  Sarah allowed him to do so, the feel of him at her side so … well, right.

  “Sarah,” he began, scrubbing his palm over his chin. “You should not have done such a thing.”

  “Told Claire, or allowed you to deflower me?” Sarah asked, truly confused.

  “Both,” he answered with frustration, then visibly checked himself. He let out an exasperated sigh. “And I did not ‘deflower’ you. Such a crime requires a bit more involvement on the part of my …”

  “Do continue!” Sarah whispered, her mind greedily eating up the information.

  Marcus turned his head toward the wilderness just beyond. “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?” Sarah asked, beginning to worry.

  He rubbed his jaw again. “Bring out the worst in me.”

  Butterflies gathered, fluttering wings of apprehension low in Sarah’s abdomen. “I bring out what’s real in you—the good and the bad.”

  Marcus looked back at Sarah, his eyes bleak.

  “Do you not worry for your reputation?” he asked, the moment of vulnerability passing as quickly as it had arrived.

  Sarah barely controlled the sudden urge to reach out and cup his face in her hands. “Claire would no more betray my confidence than I hers,” she said. The butterfly wings fluttering in her abdomen soared upward beneath her ribs and made her heart pound with an anxious beat. “What troubles you?”

  “God, woman, how can you ask such a question?” he insisted, his voice straining with the effort. “I took advantage of you—in the road, for Christ’s sake,” he added, his burr broadening the words.

  “It was against a tree—and I wanted it. I wanted you,” Sarah said simply.

  His chest rose and fell hard as he drew a deep breath. “You do not know what you want.”

  “Do not underestimate me.”

  “My lord,” a voice echoed across the meadow. Sarah and Marcus turned to see Thaddeus Pringle hurrying toward them through the thick grass.

  “Stay here,” Marcus commanded. He walked to meet Pringle, his long strides eating up the distance between them.

  Sarah obeyed Marcus without question, apprehension and foreboding chilling her.

  The constable reached Marcus, his wiry frame fairly quivering, alive with agitation. Marcus bent his head to the shorter man, both speaking in hushed tones. Try as she might, Sarah couldn’t hear their words.

  Their conversation was over as quickly as it began, the constable turning to hurry away, disappearing across the meadow while Marcus returned to Sarah’s side.

  “What is it?” she murmured, searching his grim face. Although none of the other guests stood close enough to hear, she was vividly aware the gossips were avidly watching for any hint of scandal.

  Marcus’s gaze flicked over the assemblage before returning to Sarah. “Clive Burroughs has been found strangled in the woods above the cove.”

  Sarah saw Marcus’s lips move and heard the words he spoke, but she simply could not put them together in a way that made sense. Another child killed. Another child.

  First Jasper, now Clive. She struggled to understand the reality of Marcus’s statement but her mind recoiled in horror.

  “Sarah,” Marcus said softly, his warm hand closing around her elbow. “I need your help. Can you do that?”

  She nodded, his touch steadying her, although she had the strangest sensation her body was slowly going numb.

  “I must assist Pringle—”

  “Do not leave me,” Sarah whispered, sure of nothing else than that she could not endure the coming hours without him.

  He drew her arm through his and urged her into motion, walking across the meadow toward the tree where Claire and Lady Colby continued to hold court. “I won’t be far away,” he said, “but I need you to organize assistance for Clive’s family, then I need you to go to his parents and do what you can.”

  “But I cannot.” Sarah’s gloved hand gripped his sleeve tightly.

  “You can, and you will,” Marcus assured her. “Do not underestimate yourself.”

  Her words, repeated by him with such confidence and firm belief, suddenly meant everything.

  Sarah drew in a deep breath, preparing her mind and heart for the hours ahead.

  “Ladies,” Marcus said grimly to those gathered beneath the tree, releasing Sarah’s arm and bowing. “Duty calls me away and I’m afraid I must beg your leave.”

  And then he was gone.

  “And the second boy?”

  Marcus looked at Carmichael. The head of the Young Corinthians had arrived late in the afternoon to the news of Clive Burroughs’s death. “Strangled and left dead in the forest.”

  “Interesting location, wouldn’t you agree?” Carmichael looked out over the castle’s expansive gardens from his seat on the terrace, his face unreadable.

  Marcus nodded, watching the sun sink beneath the trees. “The killer wanted the boy found. He’s sending a message.”

  “This is superb brandy,” Carmichael commented, raising his crystal glass to his lips for another sip. “Though not worth dying for, I’d venture.”

  Marcus pushed his chair back violently, rising and stalking toward the stone railing. “It’s hardly about the brandy, and well you know it.”

  “So you believe the rumors concerning the Orlov emeralds are true?” Carmichael replied, skepticism lacing his tone.

  Marcus scrubbed his hand across his face and looked over his shoulder, anger at the death of another boy simmering beneath the surface. “Don’t you? Wasn’t that the reason for sending me to this cursed backwater?”

  “To be completely honest, I thought the theory lacked merit—to put such riches in the hands of common smugglers, and some of them boys, no less. Such a simple plan as to appear ludicrous at best. Which—” Carmichael paused to taste the brandy once again, “—is exactly what makes it so brilliant.”

  “You admit you purposely sent me off on a wild-goose chase?” Marcus countered, gripping the stone balustrade with punishing force.

  Carmichael leaned back
in his chair, crossing his legs and fixing Marcus with a direct, unswerving stare. “I sent you here to recuperate, knowing full well that without a case of some sort you’d go mad.”

  “Madness is rather subjective, wouldn’t you agree?” Marcus bit out, regretting his words instantly. He thrust his fingers through his hair and grimaced. “I apologize, Carmichael. It’s been a long, trying day.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “That it’s been a trying day?” Marcus frowned at Carmichael.

  “Trying” did not begin to describe the last twelve hours.

  The child’s death was unthinkable, to be sure. But there was something about Clive’s murder that scared Marcus.

  He’d grieved for the loss of Jasper as any compassionate individual would. But Clive’s loss cut closer to his heart.

  He was forming an attachment to the town.

  And as for Sarah, he hardly knew where to begin.

  Her honesty terrified him. She was the strongest woman he’d ever met—and the most vulnerable at the same time.

  He’d very nearly shouted when he learned she’d confided their intimacy to Claire.

  Despite Sarah’s assurances that her friend would keep their secret, Marcus had his doubts that she would keep such news from Bennington.

  Based on what his married friends told him, wives seemed to delight in telling their husbands everything.

  Sarah was naïve beyond comprehension.

  She was wantonness wrapped in innocence.

  She was everything Marcus did not want or need in his life.

  And he could not stop thinking about her.

  Even now, he realized, as he stood before his superior with the responsibility for a badly botched case resting on his shoulders and the evidence mounting to suspect her brother’s involvement in what amounted to treason.

  She was there.

  In every crack and crevice of his brain, until there was nowhere to hide.

  Marcus closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples.

  “Weston,” Carmichael said in a firm, yet considerate tone. “I was not asking after your day—rather, your mental state.”

  Marcus let out a bark of laughter. He couldn’t help himself. “Do you have to ask?” he countered.

  “Sully believes that your days here have altered you in some way—that the carefree Weston is no longer.”

  “Does he, now?” Marcus asked, dropping his hands to the rough stone of the cool balustrade. “And you? What do you think?”

  Carmichael smoothly pushed back his chair and rose to join Marcus. “I think you were never comfortable in the role to begin with.”

  “The society matrons wouldn’t have allowed me into their homes were it not for this ‘role.’ I would have served no purpose—”

  “No purpose?” Carmichael interrupted, a somber cast to his intelligent features as he looked out over the gardens. “Are you absolutely sure on that point?”

  “That I’d not have been accepted in the ton were it not for my acting abilities?” Marcus asked incredulously. “Yes.”

  Carmichael turned his back on the view and settled against the waist-high balustrade. “Weston, not that I’ve ever doubted your loyalty, but your work as a Corinthian never seemed wholly satisfying to you.”

  “For a statement not meant to question my devotion,” Marcus replied, “you’ve come close to doing just that.”

  Carmichael folded his arms across his chest. “Weston, your work is impeccable, but there’s a difference between living to work and working to live.”

  Marcus was silent.

  “My friend, did it ever occur to you that the Corinthians were but the beginning for you?”

  “Are you cutting me loose?” Marcus asked grimly.

  Carmichael raised his hand, signaling for him to stop.

  But he could hardly remain silent. “Because the case is not lost—not yet. Clearly the Tisdale boy knows more than he’s admitting. I’ve hardly exhausted all—”

  “Weston,” Carmichael began firmly. “I’m merely suggesting that you view your time in Lulworth as an opportunity rather than an impediment.”

  He patted Marcus on the back. “Growth is never easy—and quite often, it’s exhausting work.”

  “I’ve enough exhausting work,” Marcus growled.

  Carmichael pushed off from the railing and walked toward the doors. “You miss the ease of playing a well-rehearsed role—nothing more, nothing less.”

  “And,” Marcus pressed.

  “And the old Weston or—well, the ‘new,’ for lack of a better term—will crack this case. You mark my words.”

  It was late, that much Marcus knew. Countless servants had traversed the length of Lulworth Castle in an effort to draw him from the terrace.

  But he would not—could not—move.

  Not until he had a firm plan.

  And not as long as he held any doubt concerning precisely what had to be done from the moment he rose from his chair.

  Then, or when the second bottle of brandy he’d demanded was empty.

  He reached for it, teetered, and fell out of the chair. He hit the cold, stone floor of the terrace with a thud, landing on his back, the legs of the chair scraping loudly as it skidded away from him across the floor.

  He squinted up at the stars, calculating the spaces between constellations.

  The smugglers responsible for the murders of Jasper Wilmington and Clive Burroughs were likely looking up at the same night sky.

  Aye, the bastards could probably tell time by the stars and planets.

  “Your bloody burr is coming out, Weston,” he said aloud, the sound grating to his ears.

  Sarah seemed to like his accent, though Marcus could not think why.

  “Goddammit all to hell, Weston,” he yelled, “get yer head on straight.”

  From smugglers to Sarah in no time at all.

  To Sarah, who shivered at the sound of his burr and would probably worship him if he wore a kilt.

  She was a wonderful woman, with nothing better to do than fancy herself in love with him.

  She’d groom him and train him, just like Titus, though Marcus felt sure he’d take to the commands with a touch more skill than the mastiff.

  “Leave the lass to her dogs, Weston.”

  He leaned up on one elbow, stretching to reach the table, grunting with the effort until he felt the weight of his brandy glass in his fingers.

  “And pigs and horses. And a peacock. For the love of God,” he added, spilling a minimal amount of the drink as he carefully lowered it.

  “A sodding peacock!” he yelled, tipping the glass to empty it of brandy.

  Oh, Carmichael had done an admirable job of meddling. So admirable that Marcus had spent his first hour alone on the terrace attacking his sobriety, while returning to his superior’s advice again and again.

  But Marcus had seen Carmichael in action before. Mighty men—the mightiest, to Marcus’s way of thinking—had been reduced to happily married fools.

  He’d never suffer the same fate, if he had anything to say in the matter.

  And then the brandy had swiftly kicked in.

  Or Marcus had come to his senses.

  One or the other, it wasn’t important.

  He knew himself well enough to realize that he’d have difficulty solving the smuggling case when his mind was occupied elsewhere.

  Namely with Sarah, whose very nature made him question himself—down to the smallest of details. It was painful and, in all honesty, unnecessary.

  And the hours between sundown and sunrise, when Marcus tended toward introspection, could be endured.

  Would be endured.

  Happily, if it meant this would stop.

  That life would return to normal—or, at least, as normal as he’d ever known.

  Resolution was at hand. He’d give up the bonny lass.

  Now, if Marcus could only stand.

  In the past, Claire had often commented on the lack of current fashion
to be found in Madame Estella’s in Lulworth. But as Sarah looked about the cozy spot, she realized that was precisely why she found it so dear.

  The tiny establishment sat cramped between the butcher on one side and the baker on the other, a fact that irritated many of Lulworth’s ladies to no end.

  Sarah never quite understood why they were so annoyed with the placement of Madame Estella’s. The convenience of purchasing bones for her dogs and a bun with plump currants for herself, all within a few steps, delighted her.

  Sarah could not imagine a more pleasing shop than Estella’s. True, the furnishings were slightly shabby. The damask settee probably should have been reupholstered the previous year, and Sarah suspected that the chintz curtains would not pass a close inspection. But the rows of fabric that lined the shop added an endearing touch. In London, the bolts of silk, satin, and velvet were mysteriously tucked away, to be brought out for each individual lady’s attention.

  And then there was Estella. Sarah watched the seamstress as she deftly completed the final fitting of Claire’s periwinkle gown, pins between her teeth and more pins neatly stuck in the edge of one sleeve.

  “A touch more here,” she mumbled around the pins, not waiting for Claire, Sarah, or Lady Tisdale’s approval before she expertly folded a tuck in the silk just below Claire’s arm, the half inch of fabric making all the difference in the fit of the gown.

  Lady Tisdale nodded in approval. “You do have a way with silk, Estella.”

  The woman looped a graying curl behind her ear and humphed in appreciation.

  Sarah smiled. Even her mother had to admit that Estella was as talented a needlewoman as one would find for miles around—not an easy thing considering the fact that Estella had gotten her start stitching fishing nets and sailors’ sturdy breeches.

  Her business had been born from necessity when her fisherman husband was washed overboard in a storm at sea, leaving Estella with a rundown cottage and three babies to feed.

  Now the talented woman expertly produced everything from rough woolen box coats for seamen to finely beaded ball gowns for the local gentry. Only in Lulworth could a woman do such a thing, Sarah thought to herself with pride.