The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  “Sarah?” Claire asked, looking down at her friend. “What do you think?”

  Sarah lifted Bones onto her lap, much to her mother’s clear consternation, and adjusted her skirts. “Estella was right. The bodice needed to be taken in just a touch.”

  “Of course.” Claire raised her arms so Estella could continue pinning. “But my question is about the ball. I don’t know that we should go forward with it in light of all that has happened.”

  “You’re being foolish, Claire,” Lady Tisdale declared stoutly. “The Bennington ball is a Lulworth tradition. The entire county looks forward to it with great anticipation—and most especially will this year, I’ve no doubt.”

  Estella slipped the pins from her mouth and set them down on a worn worktable. “A ball might be just the thing to take everyone’s mind off those poor boys.”

  She gestured for Claire to turn around, viewing the back of the bodice through narrowed eyes.

  “Exactly,” Lady Tisdale said briskly. “You would be doing Lulworth a disservice if you canceled the event. Besides, it is tomorrow. You could hardly cancel with so little notice. I do think—” She cut herself off when Bones sneezed. “Really, Sarah, must you bring that creature in here?”

  Sarah ignored the question in favor of what she considered a far more important issue. “But Mother, aren’t you the least bit concerned for Nigel’s safety?”

  “Why on earth should I be?” Lady Tisdale asked confusedly, scooting as far from Bones as the length of the settee would allow.

  Estella threaded a pin through the silk just at the apex of Claire’s shoulder. “Something to do with his dearest friends being murdered in cold blood would be my guess,” she muttered.

  “Estella!” Lady Tisdale cried, shock and dismay written across her features. “Did you not just a moment ago agree with my judicious reasoning as to why the Bennington Ball should proceed as planned?”

  Estella stepped back, ran a searching gaze over Claire from head to toe, and with a nod of satisfaction gestured for her to remove the gown. “That I did. But your boy’s safety is an entirely different kettle of fish.”

  “Exactly, Mother,” Sarah agreed, calming a quivering Bones, who’d jumped in fright when Lady Tisdale had responded to Estella’s statement. “Nigel’s dearest friends—and smuggling cohorts, I might add—are dead. And not by accident. They’ve the bruised necks to prove it.”

  The women fell silent for a moment, all four struggling to absorb the unthinkable truth, for perhaps the hundredth time.

  “Be that as it may,” Lady Tisdale said with a resolute sigh, “Nigel is hardly in danger. It’s rumored that Jasper and Clive absconded with a treasure of some sort.”

  “Is that a fancy word for stealing?” Estella asked, carefully taking the gown from Claire and draping it over her sturdy arm. “I’ll help you dress, my lady.”

  Lady Tisdale nodded grimly. “Exactly. So you see, Nigel has nothing to fear.”

  Sarah looked at her mother, then Claire, and finally Estella, who was gazing at Lady Tisdale with disbelief. “Am I to understand you believe Nigel played no part in the theft?”

  “Of course. Nigel is not like those other boys. He has no need to do such a thing.”

  For the first time in her life Sarah wanted to slap her mother senseless.

  Actually, that wasn’t quite true. She’d wished so before, but never had she come so close to following through.

  Sarah had initiated numerous conversations with Nigel in the hopes of discovering some forgotten fact that would lead to the killer. But he’d only assured her that he knew nothing more—a statement that Sarah found hard to believe.

  “Mother, I realize your daily activities do not often bring you into close contact with Nigel and his friends,” Sarah began, wrapping her hands about Bones’s midsection to assure they were otherwise engaged. “But allow me to enlighten you: Twelve-year-old boys need no reason to steal. Twelve-year-old boys need no reason to consume Cook’s strawberry tarts until they gag, nor a reason to swim naked in the ocean in the middle of November.”

  Lady Tisdale began to fidget with her shawl.

  “Mother,” Sarah demanded.

  “He claims to know nothing of the trouble—”

  “He’s hardly going to admit to such a thing at this point. His two dearest friends have been murdered!”

  Lady Tisdale swallowed hard, her nervous fingers plucking at the shawl until Sarah thought she might tear a hole in the soft cashmere.

  “We’ve given him no reason to steal—Sir Arthur and I have set the most moral of examples—”

  “You’re not listening,” Sarah interrupted, gently setting Bones on the floor and shifting across the settee to her mother’s side. “He’s a boy. Boys do rash and reckless things every single day of their lives.”

  Estella disappeared for a moment, returning with a teacup and saucer. “Here, my lady, drink this. It will do you good.”

  Lady Tisdale reluctantly released her shawl and took the cup and saucer, avoiding Sarah’s gaze as she sipped. She gasped, her eyes opening wide as she let out a heavy breath. “This is not tea!”

  “Good Lord, no,” Estella answered. “A time such as this calls for juniper cordial.”

  Lady Tisdale rested the cup and saucer on her lap, her earlier forcefulness subdued. “What are we to do?”

  “Lady Bennington holds the ball, because that’s what the county needs. And you make sure that the boy is locked up safe and sound,” Estella answered resolutely, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

  Lady Tisdale looked ready to say something, but apparently decided against speech in favor of a second fortifying nip of Estella’s cordial. “I should not have denied Lord Weston’s request,” she moaned after swallowing.

  “What request?” Sarah sat upright, foreboding filling her. Claire immediately crossed the room and sat in the dainty chair next to the settee.

  “Lord Weston came to the house yesterday and asked to speak to Nigel. I believe you were visiting the Burroughses, Sarah. I refused, of course. And when he offered to send one of his own servants to protect Nigel—”

  “You refused?” Sarah interrupted. “Mother, how could you?”

  Lady Tisdale drained the cup. “I hardly realized the danger—and who is Lord Weston to barge into my house and make demands of my family?” she added truculently.

  Claire placed her arm about Sarah’s shoulders—whether to comfort or restrain, Sarah could not be sure.

  “Who is Lord Weston?” she repeated. Anger at her mother’s determined refusal to see reason after the events of the last two days had Sarah clenching her fists.

  “He’s surprising the lot of Lulworth, I can tell you that,” Estella interrupted, collecting the cup and saucer from Lady Tisdale. “My nephew told me Lord Weston has given his entire staff leave to attend the Michaelmas Fair.”

  Lady Tisdale’s eyes widened until they were round as saucers. “That’s all well and good. But it hardly makes up for years of—”

  “And I heard Mrs. Rathbone telling Mrs. Wyatt, in this very room, mind you, of the kindness Lord Weston has shown the Wilmingtons,” Estella continued with purpose. “It appears that everyone has noticed Lord Weston’s efforts.”

  Lady Tisdale cleared her throat uneasily. “Well, I can hardly be expected to think on the man while my poor little boy is in danger.”

  Claire squeezed Sarah gently, a subtle reminder to hold on to her temper. “Lady Tisdale, who is with Nigel at the moment?”

  “Cook. The boy simply will not stand for being on his own these days,” she answered, a flicker of alarm in her eyes. “Sarah, you must talk some sense into your brother. You’re the only one he will listen to.”

  “Of course she will,” Claire answered for Sarah, gesturing for Estella to refill Lady Tisdale’s cup.

  The dressmaker produced a small flask from within the folds of her corduroy skirt and poured. “For your health,” she urged encouragingly, handing it to Lady
Tisdale.

  She did not hesitate this time, taking a drink immediately. “We’ll get this all sorted out, won’t we, Sarah?”

  Sarah nodded, though she felt anything but sure.

  Nigel had lied to Cook.

  It wasn’t the first time, nor, he suspected, would it be the last.

  But the woman had been so awfully kind to him, allowing him anything in the larder, that Nigel felt guilty.

  He’d told her not to worry, that he just needed a bit of rest in his room.

  And then he’d run as quickly as he could toward the abandoned well on the northern end of Lord Weston’s property.

  He tripped over a tree root and fell full length on the ground, scraping his palms on rocks in the grass.

  He could feel tears welling in his eyes—just as they had again and again since Jasper and then Clive had been killed.

  “Bloody baby,” Nigel whispered, sucking in a deep breath and screwing up his mouth as tightly as he could in an effort to stop himself from crying. A hard, tight knot lay heavy in his chest and it was difficult to swallow.

  He dug into the deep, brown dirt with both hands, the feel of the cool earth beneath his nails comforting.

  But he couldn’t lie there forever—though he wanted nothing more than that.

  He pushed himself up on his knees, looking about quickly to ensure that no one had followed him.

  Standing, he took a moment to swipe his palms over his hot, wet cheeks, and then he was off again.

  Nigel had been as horrified as anyone when he’d heard of Jasper’s death—just as confused as well.

  It wasn’t until Clive told him what he and Jasper had done that Nigel realized what kind of trouble the two were in.

  After spying the emerald and coin, Jasper had gone to Clive and suggested they take a bit off the top—not too much, so that no one would notice—but enough that their families could live a better life than the one the sea provided.

  Only they’d stolen something that was far more valuable to the French than either boy could have imagined.

  Clive had seen one of the Frenchmen question Jasper and then strangle him, right then and there on the beach.

  He’d known there was nothing he could do and so he’d waited. Pissed his pants with fright, and waited for the men to leave. And then waited some more.

  Finally, he’d run all the way home, dug the emerald from under the straw pallet on his cot, and taken it to the well.

  He figured they couldn’t kill him if they didn’t know where the jewel was. Some protection, Clive had said. He’d make a deal, gain a bit of blunt, and hopefully keep his head attached to his neck.

  He and Jasper hadn’t involved Nigel because, being the son of a baronet, he wanted for nothing.

  Nigel had felt oddly sad, as if risking death would have been worth it to have been included in his friends’ adventure.

  But now his heart pounded as he raced toward the well.

  He thought about the conversation with Clive over and over.

  His friend had been so sure that he could handle the French. That he’d come out on top despite what had happened to Jasper.

  Nigel turned off the path and fought his way through the bracken and fern, fronds slapping at his arms, his chest, his face.

  He pictured Clive as he’d last seen him, at Jasper’s funeral.

  Nigel slowed as the well came into view, dropping his pace to a jog as he crossed the grass.

  Clive had begged him not to tell anyone.

  He shouldn’t have listened.

  Nigel reached the stone well and placed both hands on its worn surface, catching his breath.

  He’d gagged at the news of Jasper’s death.

  And wanted to die himself when he’d heard about Clive.

  He gritted his teeth, blinked moisture from his eyes, and pulled at the worn length of rope, hand over hand.

  The bucket scraped against the mossy stone as it pitched precariously from side to side, coming into view just as it threatened to upend.

  Afraid it would tip over and lose its contents, Nigel yanked, and the bucket flew past him, landing with a soft thud on the ground.

  He sank to his knees and reached for the small package, no larger than the palm of his hand, wrapped in filthy muslin.

  Nigel didn’t bother to unwrap the treasure. He had no desire to see what had caused the deaths of his two friends.

  Jasper and Clive were gone—all because of this stupid emerald.

  “I’ll get the bloody bastards responsible,” he said out loud, looking up into the canopy of trees. “I’ll make them pay with their lives.”

  He shoved the small, dirty parcel into his pocket and took off running again, needing to be home.

  He’d no idea what to do next.

  He was afraid to do anything at all.

  But as he ran breakneck back through the forest toward Tisdale Manor, he knew that he had to do something to make them pay.

  Marlowe followed Nigel silently through the woods, making sure the boy returned to Tisdale Manor safely.

  Then he doubled back and sought out the path through the woods that would take him to the cliffs. From there he planned to cross to Lulworth Castle, where Carmichael and Weston awaited him.

  He’d been twelve himself once. And as such, Marlowe knew the boy’s pledge to seek revenge ought to be taken seriously.

  Never mind the fact that the scrawny youth was hardly a match for Napoleon’s cohorts.

  No, the boy would not give up on his goal easily.

  Something needed to be done. And quickly.

  Marlowe reached the stately front door of Lulworth Castle and rapped loudly. The door opened wide and Weston and Carmichael appeared before him, both with fowling pieces lying casually over their forearms.

  “Up for a bit of hunting, Marlowe?” Weston asked, stepping out onto the stone steps and heading for the drive.

  Carmichael followed and Marlowe fell into step. The men walked in silence for some time, one occasionally firing off a round at the sudden, desperate flight of a bird.

  “Marlowe, do you have news?” Carmichael asked, squinting at a copse of trees.

  He reached for Weston’s gun, readied it, and fired at nothing in particular. “The boy is in possession of the emerald—and a healthy appetite for revenge.”

  “Meaning?” Weston asked, taking his gun back.

  Marlowe smiled. “Come now, you were twelve once, were you not? My guess is that he’ll use the jewel to arrange a meeting. And then he’ll do his damnedest to take revenge.”

  “He could not possibly think he would be able to carry out such a task,” Carmichael said.

  Marlowe reached for a long blade of grass and began to split it into two. “Well, I’d wager that he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. Either way, he’ll get himself killed.”

  “The boy is no good to us dead,” Carmichael replied sternly.

  Weston took hold of the barrel with both hands. “Good God, Carmichael, he’s more than a means of information.”

  “Of course. But his safety is a priority, would you not agree?”

  Weston twisted his palms about the gun ruthlessly, nodding in agreement.

  “We’ll move the boy to Lulworth Castle as soon as possible. Marlowe, your success with the Mercier interrogation was quite impressive. I’ll leave the boy to you.”

  Weston swung the gun to the ready and fired into the trees. “If I remember correctly, Mercier nearly died.”

  Marlowe sent the bits of grass in his hand flying on the breeze. “We got what we needed from him, didn’t we?”

  “This is a twelve-year-old boy we are speaking of,” Weston pressed, his voice laced with anger.

  Carmichael looked at Marlowe, then at Weston, his brow furrowed. “Do you wish to interrogate the boy yourself, Weston?”

  “Do I have any other choice?”

  * * *

  The house was silent. Blissfully, forgivingly silent as Sarah sat at her rosewood table,
writing.

  She’d suffered through Claire’s final fitting and accompanied her mother home, struggling to maintain her composure. Not until she’d seen Nigel with her own eyes had she felt the easing of the iron fist of fear around her heart.

  After a brief hello, she’d quietly closed the door to Nigel’s room and fled the confines of the house for the open air. She’d run. And just for good measure, run some more.

  The air and space had restored her equanimity sufficiently to sustain her through dinner—even when her mother insisted that Sarah speak immediately, if not sooner, to Nigel.

  Her brother had refused to attend the meal, choosing instead to dine in his room.

  Sarah suspected Nigel needed time.

  She fiddled with the quill pen, rolling it between her fingers. Though writing in her journal was hardly a habit for Sarah, she picked up the pen now and again at Claire’s insistence. Good for the soul, her dear friend had assured her.

  “Bugger.”

  Nigel needed time, that much was clear. But for what, exactly?

  She simply could not believe he would knowingly involve himself in something so sinister. But unknowingly? Of course such a thing was possible. Nigel was twelve. And he was, well, a boy, as she’d had to point out to her mother that very afternoon.

  And he was surely terrified by now, no matter the depth of his involvement. Sarah wanted to take him in her arms and assure him that everything would be all right. But she could not. She would be lying if she did so.

  She looked down at the foolscap, the name “Marcus” scrawled in her hasty script.

  She needed so much to see him.

  She needed him. Wanted him. Felt sure that he would put right everything that plagued her heart and soul at present.

  Not that she believed he was a miracle worker—hardly. He was far from perfect, but it didn’t matter. In some way, his imperfections made him perfect—for her. All that Sarah wanted was all of him. The good, the bad, and otherwise.

  Before meeting Marcus, she’d never thought to rely on a single person for aid—it simply had not occurred to her.

  But Marcus had her considering the unthinkable. Believing in the unbelievable. Wanting what she’d always assumed she could never have.