Mark of Distinction

by Jessica Dotta

  “Relax,” Rooke said in a bored tone. “He’s not there. He’s not even aware we’ve made contact.”

  I turned to glance at the mouth of the alley. Boys in rags ran by, doubtlessly joining the fray surrounding Forrester.

  Behind me, a man with a black eye patch and a thin scar streaming over his cheek studied me with unabashed curiosity.

  “They’re going to start a riot,” one of the men said to Rooke.

  “Get inside,” Rooke said to me, then withdrew a silver flask and turned to the man who had spoken. “They’re smarter than that. Just make sure you pay them well for their assistance.” He returned his gaze to me and stared as he took a swig. “Send a street runner to tell him I’ve picked her up and she’s on her way. Make sure he’s fully aware our carriage is going to be stuck in the aggregation of this row. I don’t need him impatient with me when we arrive.”

  The man with the scar gave me a shove. “Move.”

  “Mind yourself,” Rooke warned. “That’s his wife you’re handling.”

  “Wife?” The man stepped away, fear rising in his eyes.

  “Best hope she don’t complain,” was Rooke’s response.

  My body felt like ice as I climbed inside the landau. The black velvet seats and polished nickel interior looked unused. Rooke joined me, and the man with the scar shut the door, enclosing us in a dark prison.

  Rooke extended his flask.

  I shook my head. “What does he want?”

  Rooke shrugged while screwing the cap back on. “Orders were to bring you. I never ask why.”

  He closed his eyes and leaned back, propping his feet on the seat next to me, as if assured I’d make no attempt to jump from the carriage. I stared at the door. Or perhaps he knew we were locked inside and I couldn’t escape.

  As our carriage made one mysterious turn after another, my fear tingled into anxiety, and then anxiety into a manageable numbness. I removed my bonnet and gloves as the carriage grew warmer and mixed with the strong ale scent of Rooke’s flask.

  Occasionally, Rooke opened an eye and peered at me, but for the most part he looked asleep. I closed my eyes, thinking of Isaac and my father. By then, they must have discovered I was missing. I felt like crying. They wouldn’t know if I was just lost, kidnapped, or had orchestrated my break from them. Doubtless Forrester would rant and scream that I’d slipped away on purpose to be with Macy.

  To my estimation, it was well over an hour before our carriage halted and the coachman jumped down, signalling we’d reached our destination. Rooke stretched, opened the door, and then slid out. Wind tousled my hair as I accepted his hand and exited.

  Neoclassic houses lined the street, and I could have laughed with relief. The architecture looked very much like the stately homes near London House. Rooke took my arm and, keeping it in a firm grasp, opened the gate leading to the house before us. As I stumbled alongside him, I finally had my first glimpse of the outskirts of Hyde Park.

  Rooke opened the door and pushed me inside. I expected something dark and sinister. Instead, we entered a foyer that felt more like a cathedral than a house. A shaft of sunlight fell from the high window, lighting trompe l’oeil walls and a ceiling painted to look as though columns and Gothic stonework surrounded us.

  Hands reached around my shoulders and unfastened my cape. The scent of Mr. Macy’s cigars surrounded me. “Don’t grow attached to the house, dearest, for I’m not keeping it longer than it takes us to resolve our differences.” He lifted the curls that trailed beneath my chignon. “You needn’t stand so stiffly,” he whispered in his alluring, amused voice. “I’ll only tempt—not force—you to my bed.”

  Heat rushed through my cheeks, for I’d forgotten how direct he was and how seductive his touch could be. A strange medley of haunting sensations, a twisting of all emotions, spiralled through me. I stood breathless as his fingers probed through my hair, finding the pins that held it. It wasn’t longing that held me in a trance, but survival. He had collected me; there might be no recourse. Only a fool would stir the wasps’ nest of his anger at the onset.

  I swallowed, knowing I needed to keep my wits. My stomach grew tremulous as he kissed along the nape of my neck slowly and sensuously. I lifted my gaze to the trompe l’oeil ceiling. It wasn’t a prayer, but it was a thought directed toward God. I wanted to believe someone cared that I was here.

  “How your heart flutters,” Mr. Macy murmured, nuzzling his raspy chin along the slope of my shoulders. He slowly started circling me, studying me.

  I could only steal tiny glances, but I saw enough. His hair was unkempt, and instead of formal attire he wore an untucked shirt with the top buttons open. His feet were bare. Dark eyes watched me with their usual amusement. Every time I lost sight of him, it heightened how sensitive my skin felt as I anticipated his touch.

  “Well,” he finally concluded, “there’s no bloom in your cheeks, but at least you’re not as thin as before. A little fresh air will cure your paleness. Forgive me, dearest.” He drew my right palm to his mouth and kissed it. “I had no intentions of driving you permanently indoors with that demonstration at Lady Northrum’s. Come.”

  I glanced at the door, dreading to follow him. Intuition told me that obedience would serve me better than attempting to run. To my surprise, I was able to move my feet though I felt no sensation in my legs. Step after step, I padded behind him, my heart hammering.

  Deep within the house, he slid open a pair of pocket doors, revealing a parlor stuffed with dark leather furniture, an oversized desk, and a low fire, reminding me of his private study in Eastbourne.

  “Now isn’t the time to lie to me,” Mr. Macy said. I smelled his brandy-laced breath as the warmth of his body neared mine. “I want honest answers from my wife, starting with why you fled from me that night.”

  I glanced at the closet, wondering if he’d planted witnesses to spy on this conversation, to prove I wasn’t Julia Pierson. “Sir,” I managed in a whisper, prepared to play my alias at all cost, “I have no knowledge of why you brought me here. I am not your wife. Please, I beg you to contact my father, Lord Pierson. He’ll confirm my identity.”

  Unbeknownst to me, I’d stared at the closet door the entire time I spoke. Macy’s brows rose with amusement before he sauntered to the door and opened it, revealing an empty space. “Allow me to assure you . . .” He then proceeded to open every door in the chamber, proving them harmless. “There is no need to perform. Our conversation is private. Should I persuade you quickly, I daresay, neither one of us would desire an audience for what follows.”

  I felt my cheeks burn. “Why must you always mock me?”

  “Mock you?” He stepped away and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Here I thought I was being rather direct. Sit, dearest, and no more games. You have an exceedingly tolerant husband, one who is more interested in resolving why you keep fleeing him, rather than lording over you.”

  As I sat on the leather sofa, I studied the layout of the room. When he’d opened the doors, I’d noted they only led deeper into the house. Heavy velvet curtains hung over the windows, but it was ridiculous to hope for escape through one of them.

  Macy crouched at my feet, sitting on his heels, managing to make his odd position look dignified. “Now tell me. Why did you flee?”

  My stomach tightened as I recalled that night.

  “Be very careful,” Macy warned. “I shall not be angry as long as you speak truth.”

  “We both know why.” I lowered my chin. “You . . . you . . .” I forced myself to say the words aloud again. “You killed Mama.”

  “Look at me!”

  I flinched at his ruthless expression as I obeyed.

  “Someday I intend to see John Greenham writhing at your feet, ready to suffer the consequences of murdering your mother. On that day I shall also have the satisfaction of hearing him confess to you that I am innocent in this matter. But until then, give me one acceptable reason why you refuse to believe I had no involvement i
n her death.”

  I pressed my hand over my mouth and squeezed my eyes shut to hold back the sobs. I couldn’t do this much longer. When in his presence, I felt tempted to believe differently than when I was away from him. How did he always manage to intoxicate my surroundings and infect my thoughts? I wouldn’t bend again. I wouldn’t. Wanting something he couldn’t escape, I cried, “You killed Churchill then!”

  “Churchill? The solicitor?”

  My fingers felt frozen as I waited to see how he would react to my knowing about that murder too. The look on his face was nothing short of incredulous.

  He rubbed his forehead as if uncertain how to address this matter. “Does it make any sense for me to finance a deeper investigation into his murder, if I had done it? Especially when I could have been rid of an additional problem at the same time.”

  I crinkled my brow to show him I didn’t understand.

  “Forgive me, but I wouldn’t have wept to see your lover dangle. Yet for your sake, I spared no expense to free him.”

  His words were incomprehensible at first, but then as I considered how long Isaac had remained at Am Meer, my father’s expression as he read my letters, and the news that was so devastating Elizabeth wished to be the one to tell me, I slowly understood. “They accused Edward of killing Churchill!”

  “Did your father not tell you?”

  That my father and Isaac would choose to keep something of that magnitude from me infuriated me. I rose, needing space. “What happened? Tell me! I need to know.”

  With maddening calmness, Mr. Macy inclined against the back of the couch. “Edward was seen running from the scene of the crime, right before he disappeared for several days. Shall we say that certain conclusions were drawn?”

  I felt so enraged I could have flown at him. “You mean you led people to believe he did it.”

  He frowned with displeasure. “I wasn’t on hand either. Something rather dear to my heart disappeared that night. I thought Bradshawl’s men had taken you. You have no idea what I underwent fearing for your life.” He looked askance, and his face was molded with an expression of pain. He shook off his thought and returned his attention to me. “When I realized Bradshawl’s men didn’t have you, I rode as hard as I could back to Adelia’s. Edward had returned by then, but despite the numerous beatings, he refused to talk about his whereabouts.”

  I wanted to cry, envisioning Edward jailed, unable to defend himself as he was questioned. Of course Edward would never have confessed the truth. It would have betrayed me.

  I spun toward Mr. Macy. “How badly was he injured?”

  An expression I couldn’t read crossed his face as he withdrew and lit a cigarette. “How wonderfully female you are. Here, your husband informs you he was nearly butchered trying to save you, and your response is to plead for information about your lover.” He closed his eyes and puffed on his cig. “He was less bruised than I was.”

  “What happened?”

  A lazy wreath of smoke wafted above him as he leaned back, eyes still closed. “I told you. I paid for his legal fees, I paid for a more thorough investigation, and I paid with a black eye, when Edward finally was free.”

  “Why?”

  He grinned, then chuckled. “Apparently he didn’t take it well when I asked him if he enjoyed my wife. Ironic, isn’t it? The cuckolded husband being the one punched.”

  I felt so frustrated I could have screamed. Instead, I cried.

  He released a deep breath, streaming smoke. When he spoke again, his voice chuckled. “No weeping, sweetheart. I forget how serious the romantic notions of the young are. It’s bad enough my men wonder why I must kidnap my own wife to hold a conversation with her, without having her leave my house with streaked eyes. Forgive me. Sit.”

  My anger swept from me, for I’d not missed his hint that I would leave. Rather than occupy the sofa with him, I edged to the chair. “Why did you pay to help Edward?”

  “Had I known your father would advertise your whereabouts, I wouldn’t have bothered. As it was, I couldn’t allow the only person who knew my wife’s whereabouts to be hanged.”

  “How did you convince them he was innocent?”

  “Darling, the evidence was everywhere. Didn’t you read about the case in the papers?”

  The papers. I folded my arms over my stomach, deciding that I despised the publications. “No. I don’t read them.”

  He laughed. “All those coded messages, and you haven’t read even one?”

  I said nothing.

  “How on earth are you spending your days, then?”

  This I had no wish to answer, nor did I wish for him to know that life with my father pained me. Mimicking Isaac, I adapted an aloof look, one of complete boredom, then shrugged.

  The muscles around his mouth twitched. “Is it truly that bad, darling?”

  His question brought on sadness, a sensation that I was estranged from any sense of home or family. I took care to display no hint of desolation, yet he saw it anyway.

  His eyes sharpened as gravity replaced his facetiousness. Cursing, he leaned forward and stamped out his cigarette. “I have half a mind to punish Roy for his role in creating that expression. It borders on absurd that my wife sits here near tears, subjecting herself to a temper like his, because of a series of misunderstandings.”

  My voice would have betrayed me further, so I did not state that it wasn’t a series of misunderstandings. Instead I studied him. He watched me with the amusement I’d often seen while at Eastbourne.

  “We have quite a problem that we need to tackle. The last time you ran away, you blamed me for the gossip that engulfed us. I have no desire to lose your goodwill twice in such a manner. Your past scandal is insignificant compared to your current one. Rather than heighten your fall from grace, I’d prefer to extend my offer of protection and a chance to avoid the coming flood.”

  “I saw your offered protection at Lady Northrum’s. No thank you. You tried your best to expose me.”

  The corners of his mouth tugged upwards. “Had I wanted you exposed, darling, all of London would be astir with the gossip that you are none other than the elusive Mrs. Macy. That demonstration was strictly to catch your father’s attention. He turns away every inquiry and request for contact. He refuses to acknowledge me. Which brings me to why you are here. I know you will listen.” He stood and sauntered to the decanters. “Brandy?”

  I shook my head. “It’s unladylike.”

  He roared with laughter as he poured two drinks. “I’m glad your father has taken it upon himself to coerce some manners into you, for you were rather lacking. However, let’s not overcompensate. Besides—” he slid onto the sofa—“my wife is allowed to drink whatever she pleases.”

  I accepted the snifter, but for some unfathomable reason, I pictured Isaac giving me a quick shake of his head.

  Mr. Macy rested against the arm of the sofa and sipped, waiting. He said nothing while the clock ticked and the fire crackled. Gradually I understood that he had no intentions of finishing our discourse until I partook with him. But why?

  I stared at the decanter and the snifters lined upside down on the tray next to it. Memory of Forrester running his finger along the bottom of a tumbler in Eastbourne’s dining room came to mind. I also considered the first night I met with Mr. Macy. He’d pressed me to drink that night as well.

  “You still wear your thoughts plainly upon your face.” Mr. Macy spoke in a sleek and unapologetic tone. “The very way you’re sitting ought to give you a clue.”

  I realized my elbows were clutched close to my side, and I hunched over my knees as if I were trying to make myself as small as possible. Every muscle in my body felt stiff. I met his dark eyes, understanding. He wished me to relax.

  I sniffed the brandy. If, as in a faerie tale, I must drink a magic potion to go home, I would. Warmth slipped into my stomach. Little by little my fingers lost their hollow feeling, and I finally sank back into my seat.

  “Do you feel capab
le of a business conversation yet?” Mr. Macy rose and poured himself another drink, then settled into the nook of the couch across from me.

  “Business?”

  His mouth slanted in a wry smile. “Yes, dear. No more kisses. You’ve gotten yourself rather entangled. Since your father refuses to acknowledge this, I have no choice but to talk legalities with my wife, whom I’d rather be seducing. How well do you understand the law surrounding our marriage?” From a nearby table he lifted a document and handed it to me.

  I feared to touch it. “What is it?”

  “For a politician, your father isn’t as brilliant as his reputation. He never should have outlined his arguments against the legality of our union to me. I’ve taken the issue of our marriage to the Doctors’ Commons. Here is the irrefutable proof that you are mine.”

  Ice ran through my veins as I took the papers. There was no need to read it. I believed him.

  “Tell your father. The discourse is documented, so he can find it easily enough to read for himself, should he disbelieve you.”

  “You are mine.” Macy’s statement continued to cycle through my thoughts.

  “You needn’t look so forlorn.” Mr. Macy switched seats, so that he now perched on the edge of a nearby table. I felt his fingers caressing my cheek. “Have I not proven myself a trustworthy husband? Even now I am proving it by attempting to hold back the scandal that is sure to break.”

  “My father will dispute this marriage at all cost.”

  “Really? Do you think he’ll expose himself to do so? Even if he would, let him try. He believes his influence would sway the outcome, but I know the dirty, well-hidden secrets of every member amongst the gentry. This, however, is a discussion for your father and me, whereas you and I have different problems to solve. Consider this my fair warning to you, dearest. I’ll not have you accuse me of ruining your life. I would very much like to structure your return without further damage to your reputation.”

  I stared at the document in my hands, feeling chills spread over my body. Deep within, I sensed he wasn’t making idle threats. My longing for Edward crested and grew so sharp I could scarcely think. I wanted guidance and didn’t trust anyone except him.