Her cheeks heated shamefully as she glanced down at her ruined dress—and her ruined body beneath—and her heart panged hollowly in her chest. Oh, he’d gotten so much more than just that!
He nodded stiffly toward the armoire. “There’s a greatcoat in there. You can take it with you when you leave,” he told her evenly. “I would suggest you tell anyone who sees you that you took a shortcut through the woods and ruined your dress, and Greaves gave you the coat when he learned of your distress.”
Her chest burned, and she could only return his stare as she waited for him to say more. But he didn’t, and obviously didn’t want to. The rejection stabbed into her heart. She’d overstepped the line where his confidentiality was concerned, and it was clear that he’d rather be rid of her than divulge any personal information about this part of his past. Even now, after all they’d shared, he still didn’t completely trust her.
Turning her face away, not wanting him to see the agony inside her, she rose from the bed and crossed to the armoire. It was filled with his clothes and toiletries, and this glimpse into his everyday life made the ache inside her clench into a lead knot in her stomach. This was what she longed to have with him. A simple, ordinary, day-to-day existence in which they thought nothing of the familiarity of looking at each other’s personal things, exemplified by a stack of folded cravats and the comfortable intimacy of shirts and waistcoats. Including the blue evening jacket hanging in the front, the same one on which she’d spilled punch nearly a sennight ago.
She pulled the coat from its hook and slipped into it, and in her sudden desperation to flee from the room—and from him, before he could see the disappointment on her face and the frustrated tears welling in her eyes—her mind barely registered that the coat hung over her like a tent. And that it smelled deliciously of him. Her fingers shook as they scrambled to button it closed and cover all traces of the ruined dress beneath.
Her eyes burned with fresh rejection. “You’re right,” she whispered, unable to breathe. “I shouldn’t be here. I was a fool to ever think—” The words choked in her tightening throat, and a hot pain burned inside her chest. When a tear slipped from her eye and trailed down her cheek, she swiped angrily at it with her fingers and turned her head away, furious at herself for letting him see her pain. “I’m sorry.”
As she hurried past his chair toward the door, his hand shot out and grabbed her arm. A groan of frustration rose from him as he capitulated. “Josie, stay.”
She shook her head. “You’ve got Royston’s book and—”
“Stay,” he repeated, and she suspected from his bleak expression that relenting cost him a great deal.
“Let me go,” she begged in a breathless whisper as another tear fell from her eyes. Oh, she was a silly cake for crying in front of him! And a complete fool for losing her heart.
Instead of releasing her, he slipped his hand down her forearm, twisted his fingers through hers, and asked quietly, “Are you certain you want to know?” When she began to answer, he interrupted her. “You can never share it with anyone. People’s lives would be put in danger. They could be killed, their families destroyed. Including me and mine.”
Josie saw a gravity in his expression that made her throat tighten, and she didn’t doubt him. As a spy he must have seen and done things that would have earned him enemies across the Continent and beyond.
But she had to know the truth about him, as surely as she needed to keep breathing in order to live. “Yes,” she whispered.
A somber expression pulled at his brow then, an odd mix of determination and worry. He tugged her gently toward him, settling her onto his lap and bringing his eyes level with hers.
“I was back from the wars and done with the army, but I wanted to do more than spend my days gambling and whoring.” Absently he erased the tears on her cheek with a caress of his thumb. “The War Office had an ongoing mission hunting down foreign agents inside England. They wanted someone who could move within society without suspicion, and I fit perfectly into their scheme. So I agreed to join.”
“Just like that?” It all seemed too simple, too innocuous for something as dangerous as espionage. And far too sudden a decision for someone as careful as Thomas.
He blew out a long breath, the admission coming hard. “My mother was half-Indian.”
“Pardon?” She blinked, not understanding that unexpected piece of information.
“She was the daughter of a maharaja who met my father when he was stationed in India. They married and had me, then we lost her to fever. I was a year old. Father remarried to an Englishwoman when I was two, and we moved back to England.”
She searched his face closely. Despite his black hair, he had fair skin and sapphire-blue eyes. Nothing about him signaled that he was anything more than the result of a long line of British aristocracy, bred and born to be an English peer.
“I take after my father,” he explained, once again making her believe he could read minds. Or at least hers. This ability of his should have unsettled her. Instead it connected her to him in a way she’d never been to anyone else. “I have his height, his coloring, his eyes…I look English. If someone didn’t know about my mother, they’d never suspect.”
She certainly hadn’t expected such an exotic background for him.
“Growing up, no one ever said anything directly to me, but I heard the rumblings, the accusations and gossip that I was a half-breed.”
“Thomas,” she whispered, appalled that anyone would dare say that.
He tenderly brushed his fingertips along her jaw, and she suspected he was attempting to soothe her rather than letting her comfort him. “That’s why I joined the army, and later why I became a spy. I wanted to prove to everyone that I was just as English as every other blue blood strolling along St. James’s Street. More, in fact. I would be more patriotic, more dedicated to my country than they would ever be because I was willing to kill and die for England, and the most any of them was willing to do was sit in the Lords.”
Willing to kill and die. He made the sacrifice sound so casual that she shuddered, and her fingers tightened their grip on his.
“I was forced to give up the army when Father inherited, but the fieldwork with the War Office gave me purpose and made my life important.”
“Your life is important without you having to risk yourself as a spy.” You are important to me. She rested her palm against his cheek and felt the strength and warmth radiating from him. “Someday you’ll be responsible for a duchy.”
“A duke is only a place-keeper.” A faint mocking tinged his voice. “A name in a list of names from two hundred years in the past. Two hundred more years into the future, and I’ll be nothing but another forgotten name. Nothing more significant than that.” He grew solemn, and she sensed the change in him, having become so attuned to him that his every mood registered inside her. “I want more from my life. I want purpose. I want to know that I made a difference.”
“You have,” she whispered, and leaned forward to kiss him reassuringly. He’d changed her life in so many ways, the extent of which she could barely fathom. None of which she dare speak aloud. And he’d trusted her with this most private secret. Her heart somersaulted with hope. After all, if he was willing to share his past, then perhaps he might be willing to share his future.
“But there’s always more to do.” He reached behind him and pulled out the black book that they’d taken from Royston’s study. “Starting with this.”
He handed her the book, then placed his hands around her waist and lifted her from his lap to set her onto her feet.
“Go on,” he urged. “Read it.”
Trembling, she stared down at the small book. Her work for the past two years all came to this. The proof that would find Royston guilty of what he’d done to the orphans. And the proof that would rip away Thomas’s last chance at returning to the War Office.
Suddenly unable to bear the enormity of it, she shoved the book back at him. “No, I can’
t! Thomas, you read it. Please.”
With a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he rose to his feet and gently closed his hands firmly around hers as they clutched the book. “It’s yours, Jo.”
He cupped her face and tenderly touched his lips to hers. In that kiss she tasted grief, and it tore at her heart.
He dropped his hands away and stepped back. “Go on. Read it.”
* * *
As Thomas watched Josie’s face, he saw a hundred different emotions register there. Uncertainty, dread, a touch of fear, trust…but most of all, there was love.
Suddenly everything was clear. The puzzle he’d found in her solved itself before his eyes, and he saw her, finally, without pretense or artifice. This woman standing barefoot in her ruined dress, his coat draped like a tent over her body, had tempted him since the moment he’d seen her across the crowded ballroom. Brilliant and quick, she possessed more character, kindness, and personal strength than all the women he’d ever met put together. She was warm and soft in his arms, and she made him laugh and smile in a way he hadn’t done for months. If ever. And she had him longing for more than just fleeting moments of intimacy, contemplating instead how wonderful it would be to be able to pull her into his arms and fall asleep with her not just for a few hours but all night and every night, and to have her next to him in the morning when he woke.
But that dream was impossible. She deserved a lifetime of happiness, a real home, and children, and he couldn’t give her that life. Not when he still needed to recapture his own, the one he was destined to have of meaning and purpose. And Josephine had no place in that life. He could never function as a spy if he was worried about her. The fight last night, when he’d been terrified that she’d be hurt, and the incident today in the study with Royston, both proved that to him. In those moments he hadn’t been thinking like an agent. He’d been thinking only of her.
Someday he hoped he could tell her the truth, how he’d known at this moment that he was in love with her.
But that he’d been unable to do anything about it.
“Read it, Jo,” he insisted quietly, then stepped away from her before he yielded to the temptation to pull her into his arms and admit how he felt about her.
A ragged breath tore from him as he leaned back against the windowsill and watched her read through the book. Of all the things to happen when he was finally so close to having his life back—to meet her. He’d been with more women than he could remember, and his desire for all of them combined didn’t equal the longing he carried for this one. One who drove him so completely mad she couldn’t help but be…Well, she was the one he didn’t want to give up. But if he went back to the life he’d known before he’d become an agent, the emptiness would kill him completely.
He cleared his throat. “What did you find?”
“I don’t know. A list of names and dates, some notes…” Her fingers flipped through the pages, her brow furrowing in a frown. “This is the oddest thing, but in the back, it looks like an account ledger of men’s names.”
“A ledger of names?” he repeated, puzzled.
“At the front of the book, each page has a name written at the top. I recognize these. They’re the men connected to the orphans, and some of the notes make mention of Potter in Islingham.”
He shrugged, not yet convinced that she’d found the proof she needed against Royston. “Every village has at least one potter.”
“Not a potter,” she corrected firmly. “Henrietta Potter. The woman who runs the orphanage.” She ran her finger over one of the pages. “And I wasn’t the only one making the families pay. Listen to this—‘Jane Steadwell. October 1810—Potter accepted delivery. May 1812—John Steadwell argued favorably for Italian trade vote in Commons. Roberta Huntley. January 1811—Potter accepted delivery. November 1814—George Huntley introduced canal bill in Lords.’” She glanced up at him, her eyes shining with excitement. “Royston’s been manipulating votes in Parliament. Thomas, we found it! Proof of what he’s been doing.”
He stared at her grimly as his insides churned in a riot of betrayal and anger. Josie had been right all along. Royston had been lying to him and his family for years, pretending to be the reputable peer he wasn’t— Christ, he’d lied to all of England, manipulating and blackmailing for his own gains. And the bastard had used innocent children to do it.
He should have been relieved that the motivation behind Josie’s crimes had been validated, that they’d found the evidence that would prevent her swinging from the gallows or being sent to gaol. Hell, he should have been tugging her into his arms with joy and carrying her back to the bed, to spend the rest of the afternoon making love to her, now that he knew she was vindicated.
Yet the tingling at the back of his neck told him that what she’d found was so much worse than evidence of political favors. He held his breath, forcing himself to ask calmly, “You said there was a list of men’s names?”
“In the back. That’s the part that made me think of a ledger.” She flipped to the end of the book. “This part looks like an account book, with a column of dates, another of payments made, one of payments received. But instead of listing items in the center column, Royston’s written names.”
His heart thudded, skipping a fearful beat. Royston had deep connections within the War Office. That was how the earl had known to come to him for help with the highwayman. And if Royston was engaged in political blackmail, if he was making lists of names and recording prices next to them, then…Oh Christ.
“Jo,” he said somberly, trying to ignore the chill of dread tickling at the base of his spine, “stop reading now.”
She flipped back and forth between the pages. “Here’s another list, with the same columns of dates and payments made and received—”
“Josephine, stop.”
“But some of the names have been crossed out…James Fitch-Batten, Stephen Graves, Vincent Matthews—”
“Stop.”
She looked up, and he saw the blood drain from her face, the green pools of her eyes suddenly stormy and intense. “Thomas Matteson,” she whispered, reading the last name. “You knew, didn’t you? When I started describing the lists—you knew your name would be here.” Her eyes narrowed as suspicion darkened her face. “How?”
“Because I was once one of those men.” When he pushed himself away from the window and approached her, she stepped back as if suddenly afraid of him. He stopped, hating the trepidation he saw on her face. “Listen to me—”
“What connection do you have to Royston?” she demanded as she inched away from him. “You said he was just an old family friend.”
“He is. Nothing more.”
“Then why is your name here?”
His jaw tightened as he glanced at the book in her hands. “Because you’re right. That is a ledger. It’s Royston’s account book. He’s been working with the enemy and recording his transactions inside.” He couldn’t tell her the entire truth, that the listed names were of British secret agents, because then her life would be placed in as much jeopardy as those of the men listed inside that book.
Her lips parted warily, the color fading from them just as it had from the rest of her face, but she boldly held his gaze. Then her eyes flicked down to the page. “Your name’s been crossed off. What does th—”
“That book is dangerous. Give it to me.” He held out his hand. When she didn’t move, he added softly, “Please.”
But she was sharp and inherently distrustful, and she must have sensed why he now wanted the book when he’d practically forced it on her only moments ago, because instead of handing it over she clutched it tightly in her arms. With a sickening knot clenching in his gut, he knew he had a fight on his hands to get it away from her.
She took another step away, angling toward the door. If she made an attempt to run, he’d be on her before she reached the hallway.
“Josephine,” he ordered calmly, “hand over the book.”
“Why?” She tighte
ned her grip around it, so hard her fingertips turned white against the black cover. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Destroy it.”
“I won’t let you.” Another step backward, almost to the door now—“This holds the proof I need to free John Cooper and stop Royston from ever harming those children again.” Another step. “It has all the names, all the dates, the favors he took in return…”
That book held so much more, and because of that, he could never let her leave this room with it. “I’m sorry, Jo, but I need that book.”
“Because your name is listed inside?” Her chin jutted into the air accusingly. “Who are you helping now, Thomas—Royston, the orphans…or yourself?”
That accusation pierced his chest, but he kept his face even, his expression blank, to hide the pain she so easily inflicted on him. Then he knew why the War Office didn’t want its field agents to marry. Affection made them far too vulnerable, especially to the ones they loved. “Give me the—”
She bolted.
He caught her in a heartbeat, pouncing on her and pressing her against the back of the door, the same spot where he’d pinned her less than hour before when he’d been inside her and she’d fiercely returned his passion. Now, though, not desire but fury blazed in her eyes as he pivoted her around to face him and pressed her shoulders against the white-paneled wood.
The swirling suspicion and distrust on her beautiful face broke his heart. He’d proven himself no better than those men before him who’d thought they had a right to hurt her. But he had no choice.
“Let go of me,” she demanded, her voice low and trembling.
He did as she asked, sliding his hands off her shoulders, but he placed them on either side of her to keep her trapped between the door and his body. “That book will not leave this room. I cannot allow that.”
How I Married a Marquess Page 23