The girl blushed slightly and turned her head away. “Mr. Cartwright was quite charming. I was immediately taken with him.”
Nicole and Regina exchanged a glance.
“Had you met Mr. Cartwright before?” Nicole asked Miss Lester.
“Just once. At another party. He was ever so nice to me. He treated me so kindly.”
“You didn’t know the others?” Nicole prodded.
“I’d never met Lord Anthony before,” Miss Lester said. “I’d met Lord Hillenbrand a time or two. He proposed to Arabelle earlier in the Season, you know?”
“Yes, I’d heard.” Nicole thought for a moment. “He didn’t seem to harbor ill will over the fact that she turned him down?”
“No…” The young woman glanced toward her mother. “At least I didn’t think so.”
Nicole furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”
Miss Lester took a tentative sip of tea. “I mean he seemed fine until…”
“Until when?” Nicole prodded, leaning forward, her heart beating faster.
“Until the night of the dinner party.” Miss Lester leaned forward and lowered her voice. “That night I saw him do something quite peculiar.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Grimaldi, there you are, good to see you.” Lord Tottenham’s voice boomed through the corridor outside the duke’s study. “How’s the investigation coming?”
Mark opened the door to usher the man inside. “I’ve just come from speaking to Lady Arabelle and intend to speak to Mr. Cartwright next. How was your journey here?”
“As good as can be expected,” the older man thundered. “With my gout, no long ride in a coach is ever pleasant.” He laughed heartily at his own words.
“I suppose not.” Mark gestured for him to take a seat. “Care for a drink?”
“I always care for a drink,” Tottenham replied with another loud laugh.
Mark crossed to the sideboard near the windows and poured two glasses of brandy. When he returned to hand a snifter to Tottenham, the large man had fit his girth into one of the oversized dark leather club chairs arranged in front of the duke’s desk.
“The memorial is in the morning?” Tottenham asked, taking a swig from his glass.
“It is.” Mark nodded. He eyed the older man carefully. Was his promotion riding on whether he uncovered the culprit quickly? He could only assume it was.
“Do you hope to have your suspect by then?”
“Oakleaf is speaking to Lord Anthony now. We don’t suspect him, but he could have some information that may point us in the correct direction.”
“Sounds good.” Tottenham took a large swig of brandy.
Mark seated himself in the matching chair and cleared his throat. “How exactly are you related to the Colchester family?” He’d never heard that Lord Tottenham was related, but then most of the aristocracy was related somehow. Inbred group of people that they were.
“Oh, I’m only a distant cousin. Quite distant, by marriage. More distant than Mr. Cartwright even.” Tottenham laughed even louder and took another swig of brandy.
Mark studied the man’s face. He’d been worried that Lord Tottenham may have already learned that he was the duke’s nephew, but watching him now he was certain that wasn’t the case. Regardless, the longer this conversation lasted, the sooner Mark would be forced to admit to his relationship to the duke. He needed to turn their conversation back to the investigation.
“Speaking of Mr. Cartwright, Oakleaf and I have decided to ask the duke to tell Mr. Cartwright privately that he’s not the heir.”
Tottenham’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t know he wasn’t.”
“Yes, well, the duke told us that much … in order to help with the investigation.” Mark cleared his throat again. Damn. This was hardly moving away from the awkward bit.
Tottenham’s brow furrowed. “What purpose do you hope telling Mr. Cartwright ahead of time will serve?”
Mark turned his untouched brandy glass in his hand. “We want to gauge his reaction to the news … privately.”
“Ah, I see. That may well be the best course. Can’t wait to hear what the man says. Though it can’t be easy learning you’re not a future duke.” Tottenham laughed again and his belly shook.
“Agreed.” Mark hesitated. Now would be the perfect time to admit to Tottenham that he was related to the family, but his pride kept his mouth closed. He refused to tell him before the man had made a decision about the Home Secretary position.
“Any decision yet as to who will be the next Home Secretary?” he asked instead. Might as well get right to it.
Tottenham nearly drained his glass. His belly wobbled more as he turned in his seat. “Ah, always thinking about business, aren’t you, Grimaldi? That’s why they call you the stone man, isn’t it?” He chuckled more. “I tell you what, find out who Coleford’s killer is before the naming of the heir and the position is yours.”
Mark blinked. “Truly?” It couldn’t be that easy, could it? Find the killer and receive the position? How many brandies had Lord Tottenham had today? Never mind. It didn’t matter. The man had said it and Mark intended to hold him to it. He needed to wrap up this investigation as quickly as possible. If he could identify the killer before the heir announcement, he’d be able to tell Tottenham ahead of time and get his promotion before the news of his impending title was revealed. That would be ideal as long as Tottenham didn’t become angry with him for keeping his relationship with the duke a secret. But Mark would worry about that when the time came. First thing was first. He needed to finish this investigation.
“Truly,” Tottenham replied, lifting his glass in the air. “Now get me some more brandy. This glass feels a bit light.”
* * *
Two hours later, Mark entered his uncle’s study again. His uncle had just left and Mr. Cartwright remained in the room alone. The younger man’s back was turned. He stared out the window at the meadow.
“I’ve spoken to the duke,” Mr. Cartwright said quietly, apparently sensing Mark’s presence.
“I see,” Mark replied. He couldn’t tell by Cartwright’s voice if he was angry. He sounded more resigned than anything.
Cartwright blew out a breath. “He wanted me to know before the announcement. He showed me the codicil. I’ll not take his place.”
“He’s quite sick,” Mark replied. “This has been difficult for him.”
“I know.” Cartwright turned slightly to look at Mark, who came to stand near the desk, closer to him. “Congratulations are in order for you, I suppose.”
Mark folded his arms behind his back and shook his head. “No. I wish my uncle no ill will and I certainly don’t want the title.”
“I find that difficult to believe.” Cartwright’s voice held a definite edge.
“I don’t expect you to understand.” Mark leaned a hip against the desk. “However, I do hope I can count on your discretion. We don’t want the truth spread about until the announcement on Wednesday.”
“You can count on my discretion,” Cartwright replied, his mouth setting in a resigned line.
“Thank you.” Mark mustered a perfunctory smile. “Now tell me. What do you remember about the night John died?”
Cartwright expelled another long breath. “Questioning me too?”
Mark crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes on the younger man. “We’re questioning everyone.”
Cartwright scrubbed a hand across his face. The lines near his eyes told the story of how weary he was. “Fine.” He moved away from the window and took a seat in one of the leather chairs in front of the desk. “To be honest, I thought the invitation odd. John and I were not close. In his note he explained that Lady Arabelle wanted to meet me.”
Mark furrowed his brow. That was odd. “Lady Arabelle? Did he say why?”
“No. He gave no details, but I decided I should go and play the part of the doting spare. Besides, I’ve always been curious to see the marquess’s
town house.”
Mark inclined his head to the side. “And did you find it … to your liking?”
“Looked just like every other aristocrat’s lair,” Cartwright replied with a wry smile.
“Yet, you aspired to be one of them.” Mark studied the man’s face. Cartwright was gentry, but he was hardly aristocratic. Becoming a marquess would have been a huge step up in life for the man. Was he in the same room with a killer?
“One cannot help but dream,” Cartwright replied with yet another long sigh. He turned to face Mark head-on and looked him in the eye. “You think I killed him, don’t you? To gain the title? Seems a bit much, don’t you think?”
Mark held his gaze. “Who said he was murdered?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. The rumor is rampant among all of us and Bow Street wouldn’t be investigating if there was nothing to investigate.”
“Fine.” Mark kept his tone calm and steady. “If not you, who do you think killed him?”
The other man scowled. “If I were you, I’d be questioning Lord Hillenbrand. He wanted Lady Arabelle, and from what I’ve been told, was jealous as a cuckqueaned fishwife over losing her.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The minute Nicole walked into the bedchamber before dinner that night, Mark pulled her into his arms and gently pushed her up against the wall next to the door, kissing her neck, her ear, her eyelid. He kicked the door shut, then grabbed her skirts and shoved them up with both hands before fumbling with the fall to his breeches, freeing himself.
Nicole eagerly helped him. This was how she liked it best, she decided. When he seemed as if he couldn’t keep his hands off her, so mad with lust that he had her up against the wall. This was definitely one of her favorite positions.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he breathed as he lifted her and slid into her already wet warmth.
“Me too.” She crooned, pressing her head back against the wall, exposing the column of her neck to him. He nibbled down its length, the whole time clutching her hips to guide himself inside her again and again.
“Have you?” he teased, rubbing her nipple with his thumb through the layers of her gown and shift.
“Uh-huh.” She could barely talk. His hips worked against her, grinding into her, making her light-headed.
“What, specifically, were you thinking about?” His voice came in hard pants.
“I was thinking about—” She stopped to moan and he covered her mouth with his.
After the kiss ended he said, “You were saying?”
“I was thinking about your head between my legs,” she admitted, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as he held her with both hands under her thighs. She folded her legs around his hips.
“Want to repeat that, do you?” he growled against the side of her mouth.
“Yes,” she hissed.
“Your wish is my command, my lady.”
He walked with her still straddling him over to the bed and laid her down. Then he kneeled in front of the bed and pulled her hips to him. He gave her his most wicked grin before pushing her skirts high enough to expose her and lowering his mouth between her thighs.
Nicole arched up and braced herself on her palms, her fingertips digging into the bedding behind her. Oh, God, the man was good with his mouth. Too good.
He laved at her, licking in precisely the right spot over and over until she fell back on the bed and cried out his name.
He moved up over her then and pushed into her in one slick smooth slide, pausing only to kiss her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. Then he braced his hands on either side of her head and slid in and out of her again and again, his hips keeping up the gentle torture as she moaned for him.
“Wh … what were you thinking about all day?” she asked, sliding her hands up over his muscled shoulders and into his soft, thick hair.
“This.” He slid into her again. “And the maddening sounds you make while I’m doing it.”
She groaned again. She couldn’t help herself.
“I’ve dreamed about the sounds you make when we make love,” he said, changing the angle of his thrusts just enough to send pleasure rolling through her anew.
Nicole caught her breath. Did he have any idea what he’d just said? Had he meant it? He’d dreamed about the sounds she made? Meaning over the years he’d dreamed about it?
“Which sounds?” she asked, not trusting herself to ask more than that.
He slid out of her slowly, and paused there, hovering above her.
“No,” she groaned, pulling at his hips, wanting him back.
“That’s one,” he said with a wicked grin.
He slid back inside her, giving them both what they wanted.
“What else?” she managed to breathe.
He pulled her bodice and shift down over her breasts and sucked on one of her nipples until it made a hard point. “Ooh,” she called out, cradling his head against her.
“That’s another one,” he said, his thrusts rhythmic, slow. His panting breaths kept pace with the dance of their bodies, his hands anchored on either side of her head.
“Any others?” she somehow managed as her hips writhed beneath him.
“My favorite.” His hand slipped down between their bodies, to the place where she was aching with pleasure and slick with need. She caught her breath, every muscle tightening in anticipation of his touch against the most sensitive part of her … and it came, intent, unerring, torturously slow. He gently explored her folds and found what would make her gasp and jerk, and then he didn’t stop, even when she was all but begging for more. He rubbed her in tiny, maddening circles, too tiny, too slow, but oh, so sweet, over and over, until her skin was damp with the exertion of chasing her climax, her hair tangled on the pillow and clinging to her temples. When she actually did beg, when she lifted her lashes to find him grinning just a little, he quickened his caress at last and thrust firmly inside her at the same time. Once, twice, giving her all she wanted and more, until she cried out his name loud enough that he cupped a hand over her mouth and leaned down to whisper wickedly in her ear, “That one.”
While her body still thrashed beneath him in ecstasy, he rose up and drove into her, his grin fading into fierce determination as he raced to meet her climax with his own.
“Nicole—” he cried, and with one last thrust, spilled himself inside her, while his body quaked against her, beautifully helpless in ecstasy.
* * *
Moments passed in the quiet darkness before Nicole ventured to move. Her body was thoroughly exhausted and she was blissful. She stretched her arms above her head and turned on her side to face him. She couldn’t help but repeat in her mind the words he’d said. “I’ve dreamed about the sounds you make while we’re making love.” Did he mean it? Or had he merely spoken in the heat of the moment? She couldn’t ask him. It would open wounds she wanted to pretend she could keep healed. Better if they kept their time in bed separate from everything else.
“Did you ever think about me? Over the last ten years?” His voice held a note of vulnerability that both thrilled and frightened her. He was going to ask the difficult questions apparently.
She swallowed. “Yes,” she answered honestly. “From time to time.” Every day. “Did you think about me?” God help her, she couldn’t keep the question in.
“I did,” he answered simply. “Yes, I did.” Mark’s fingers filtered through her hair and he hugged her tightly against him.
* * *
The harsh crack of the whip against his back would have sent him to his knees had Mark not been strung up between two poles, thick ropes eating into his wrists and causing sores upon the sores that were already there from his last beating.
“Where are your compatriots?” the French commandant asked in his native language before he drew back his arm to send the whip flying toward Mark’s already scarred back again.
“What compatriots?” Mark replied in fluent French. He knew it bothered the commandant to h
ear an Englishman speak his language. It bothered him even more to know Mark had no accent.
The whip slashed through the air and seared Mark’s back again, making his vision go dark, the pain nearly unbearable. It usually ended when he passed out. Or at least he assumed it ended then.
“I grow tired of your games, Lieutenant. Tell me where they are camped or I shall kill you.”
Mark clenched his jaw. “You have it wrong, mon ami. I am a lieutenant general, not merely a lieutenant.”
The whip sliced through the air again and Mark’s sharp groan cut through the silence.
“I do not care if you’re a field marshal! You can be sure your dead body will be stripped of rank,” the Frenchman gritted out, his voice growing angrier with each word.
“Go to hell,” Mark managed through clenched teeth, bracing himself for the amount of pain that would surely bring darkness.
The whip cracked again and again, the Frenchman taking out his pent-up rage on Mark’s back. Three, four, five more cracks. Blood dripped down his back and pooled near his dirty bare feet. Mark counted ten before his vision blurred and for only a moment the image of a gorgeous face framed with fiery red hair floated in his mind’s eye, then the world went black.
He awoke in his dirty cramped cell, the pain in his back so intense he couldn’t move. His dry, cracked lips opened, his breathing labored and hoarse. They would eventually toss in a crust of stale bread and a filthy cup half-full of water. It might already be near the door, but he’d have to be able to crawl over and get it. At the moment he couldn’t crawl.
They wanted to know the location of his camp, the one he’d shared with the elite group of spies he’d been working with in France. He’d sacrificed himself for the others, leading the French away when they’d come too close. They’d eventually captured him. Perhaps that was what Nicole had meant when she called him reckless. Well, then, he was reckless because he’d die in a heap on the vermin-infested floor before he would give away the location of his countrymen, the allies who depended on him.
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