The musicians struck up the waltz. A pang of remorse had him scanning the dance floor. Delilah was not among the couples whirling across the parquet. Part of him reveled in the fact no other man had claimed her, but the other part cursed the longing he couldn’t afford.
Lady Casterly was correct. Using Delilah for his own ends would only lead to her ruin, and even if he wanted to do something honorable, he had nothing to offer her but a tainted name, a rundown estate, and a dream.
Determined to put her out of his mind and concentrate on the mission, Marcus strolled into the entry, past a footman who stretched the shoulder seams of his jacket, and down a hallway warmly lit by sconces.
Gilmore’s study was not on the first floor, although Marcus had accidently located the ladies’ retiring room, which precipitated many apologies and a quick escape. The study must be located down the darkened hallway at the top of the stairs.
Did he dare make a break up the stairs? His title would earn no boons from Gilmore’s hired brutes or Quinton’s killer if he were caught. A late arrival swung the brawny footman-cum-guard’s attention to the door, giving Marcus a heartbeat to make a decision.
He took the steps two at a time and pressed himself deep within the shadows above. The sprint upstairs plus the stress of the situation sent the blood skidding through his veins like a bolting horse. He didn’t have time to catch his breath or gather his wits.
Voices sounded on the stairs. Well-educated male voices speaking in low tones. Marcus slipped into the nearest room. It was dark, but shadows in the shape of a settee and a small table marked his location as a sitting room. He could only hope the men weren’t planning on seeking its privacy.
Marcus peered through the cracked door. At first, he saw no one, but then a man he didn’t recognize moved in and out of view before Marcus could set his features to memory, leaving an impression of dark hair and a wiry frame. Could he be Quinton’s killer?
Gilmore sidled into view, his hair thinning and his stomach straining against his waistcoat. He had the reputation for heavy drinking and excess gambling. He rocked on his feet and mussed his hair with jerky movements of his hand.
“You made a copy of the bloody book. It’s of no use to anyone. Take it,” Gilmore said with clenched teeth. “I want out.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, my lord.” The unknown man’s voice was as cool as Gilmore’s was furious. It also niggled at Marcus’s memory. Was this the man who had been in the window with Harrington the night of Quinton’s murder?
“The devil it’s not. A man is dead. You assured me I would be safe, and then Quinton turns up half-eaten in the Thames. I won’t end up as fish food, do you hear me?” Gilmore’s attempt at sounding authoritative descended into full-throated fear.
“You’re overreacting. No one knows who killed Quinton or why. It might have been a jealous husband.” The other man’s voice was soothing, but considering the subject, he came across as disingenuous. “Anyway, our quarry doesn’t know we are in contact and have copied the book in your possession. He is desperate to obtain it, and we are desperate to unmask him. You are our only connection to him.”
“My connection is tenuous at best. Old Wyndam is the only one who dealt with him face-to-face, and look where he is now—worm food. If you expect me to keep the meeting with this cove, then I want more coin.” Gilmore did his best to gather his emotions and appearance, smoothing his hair and waistcoat.
“What day has it been set for?”
“Tuesday at Fieldstones.”
“Fieldstones? At your suggestion, I suppose.” Distaste flavored the stranger’s voice. It was obvious he didn’t care for Gilmore.
“It was at his suggestion,” Gilmore said defensively.
“What manner of man is he? I wonder.” Hawkins spoke as if not expecting an answer, but he got one anyway.
“I hope not the murdering kind,” Gilmore said darkly. “If he wishes to remain anonymous, I can’t see him turning up at all.”
“This meeting is our only solid lead. Once you hand over the book, I’ll have a man waiting to nab and question him.”
“I might be more motivated with extra coin in my pocket. I’ve had a bad run at the tables.” Fear blunted the wheedling whine in Gilmore’s voice.
A silent negotiation seemed to commence until the unidentified man murmured, “Expect a courier with half the payment, but if you can’t deliver me the identity of the traitor, consider my protection withdrawn. Now, point me toward the servants’ stairs.”
Gilmore moved out of Marcus’s view, and a nearby door creaked. Marcus grabbed the doorjamb, straining to see and hear.
Gilmore called out, “Hawkins!”
Marcus started and bumped the door. The slight squeak froze him in place, but neither man swept it open with an “Aha!” The stranger was Hawkins. The puppet master. Marcus had imagined a larger, more imposing fellow, but he couldn’t deny Hawkins had dominated Gilmore.
“I’ll expect a boon from Prinny if I succeed. Another estate, perhaps?” Gilmore’s voice was oilier now he had seemingly won their skirmish.
Marcus couldn’t hear Hawkins’s reply. Gilmore and Hawkins were working in tandem, and Marcus could only guess the man Gilmore was set to meet at Fieldstones was the man in the hat who’d pinched the first copy of the book and killed Quinton and perhaps his father. A traitor, Hawkins had called the killer, which meant his father was not a traitor. Unless he had been in league with Quinton’s killer. While questions still swirled, Marcus finally had a handle on the players of the game.
Gilmore muttered, “I need a drink and a distraction.”
Marcus heartily concurred. Tossing Gilmore’s study was too risky now. Instead, he would crash the assignation at Fieldstones where he would have the opportunity to identify the killer, pinch the book, and hopefully, discover the truth within its pages.
The man’s heavy footsteps grew quieter, and the whoosh of a door opening down the hall moved the air around Marcus. Instincts told him he was alone. After verifying with a quick peek, he slipped out of his hiding place, keeping to the shadowy edges of the hall.
With the top of the staircase in sight, his heart danced along his ribs, and a rush of relief made him sick to his stomach. Cloak-and-dagger games weren’t his specialty, and as soon as this debacle was resolved, he would retire to the country to breed horses the rest of his days.
A bundle of yellow dashed up the stairs. Delilah. She held her skirts, her trim ankles flashing with every step. Hesitating at the top, she looked around, her chest working with her quickened breaths and drawing his attention downward to her rather magnificent décolletage.
He stepped out of the shadows, drawn to her like a planet to the sun.
“Marcus,” she whispered urgently and ran to him, catching his arms and drawing close. “There are runners about.”
“I noticed. I overheard Gilmore and Hawkins in a tête-à-tête.”
She gasped softly. “What did you discover?”
“Gilmore has another book in his possession. It’s here but too dangerous to seek out at the moment. There was mention of an upcoming meeting at a place called Fieldstones in order to pass the book to Quinton’s killer.”
“What is Fieldstones? An inn, perhaps?” A crinkle appeared between her brows.
“More likely a gaming hell.”
“’Ere now, she was a pretty little thing and giving you the eye, if you know what I mean.” A man with a Cockney accent was ascending the stairs, the top of his pomaded hair coming into view, a compatriot close behind. If he and Delilah were caught, ruination would be the least of their worries.
Marcus looked over his shoulder at the sitting room he’d vacated. Could they make it? He tensed, prepared to pull her to relative safety.
As if she sensed his thoughts, Delilah murmured, “There’s no time for retreat. Forgive me, Marcus.”
Before he could respond, she took his face between her gloved hands and pulled him to her, mashing their lips
together. His eyes remained open in shock, her face blurring. The bulk of the two men cleared the top of the stairs.
Her lips remained planted on his. As his shock faded, his body roared to life. He’d been thinking and dreaming of kissing her, and now she was offering the one thing he would have never taken on his own.
A kiss.
Simple, yet infinitely complicated.
He wrapped an arm around her waist and fit her curves against him. His other hand cupped her nape, his thumb grazing the satiny skin of her jaw and tilting her head to take control. Tendrils of her hair sneaked under his cuff to tickle the skin of his wrist. He moved his lips over hers, exploring and coaxing a response.
Her response was a breathy moan, her arms twining around his neck, her body molding even closer. He glided his hand up her arm, the satiny fabric of her glove giving way to the heated, soft skin of her upper arm. His rough, rein-callused fingers caught on the delicate yellow fabric of her frock. The urge to unwrap her like a piece of candy and relish the sweetness underneath nearly overwhelmed him. It would be a sweet, sinful surrender to his desire.
Time pushed and pulled and ceased to have meaning. Danger was an abstract concept. The feel of her in his arms blurred out the sharp edges and urgency of his mission.
He sucked her bottom lip between his teeth and nipped it gently. Her tongue darted to touch his lip. He groaned and was ready to push her against the wall when the sound of a throat clearing brought him out of the trance her kiss had cast over him.
He looked over his shoulder. The two hired men stood behind him, smirks on their faces.
“’Ere now, sir. You and the, er, lady will have to find somewhere else for your peccadillo. This floor is off-limits.”
“Do you mean there are no private areas? Even for a bit of coin?” Marcus’s blasé, rakish tease sounded more like the croak of a frog. Or a man rocked to his core.
“Not here, sir. You and your young miss need to return to the ballroom.”
Marcus offered Delilah his arm as if he hadn’t been ready to strip her lemon-yellow dress off her body in the middle of a hallway moments ago. She lay her hand on top, her tremble vibrating through his arm. Her hair was decidedly less neat than when she’d arrived, and her lips were red and slightly parted as if she were having a difficult time catching her breath.
His lungs didn’t seem to be working properly either. The two men escorted them to the bottom of the stairs. One touched his forelock and winked at Marcus. A yell came from upstairs, and the two men started and exchanged a telling look before bolting upstairs.
Marcus froze and stared up the stairs. What was happening? Had the killer come for the book and for Gilmore? Had Marcus’s last best chance been lost? He swayed, wanting to follow, sure the commotion had something to do with the mystery he had yet to untangle.
“No.” Delilah tugged him into the fringes of the crowd and stood on tiptoes to glance around the room. “We can’t afford to raise suspicions any higher. I need to return to Mother and Lady Casterly before I’m missed, and you need to lose yourself in the crush before suspicions arise.”
As she brushed by him, he caught her hand. “Be careful, Delilah. Please.”
Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but she only gave his arm a squeeze before slipping away. He stayed rooted until the bright yellow of her gown was snuffed out by the crowd. The stuffy air and wall of people pressed down on him like a giant hand, the weight unbearable. He needed night air and solitude.
The men who had been guarding the door were gone. A backward glance showed movement at the top of the steps. It would be safer all around—to Delilah’s reputation and his mission—if he disappeared. For now.
Chapter 6
Lady Casterly paced in front of the settee, each tap of her cane a strike to Delilah’s temple. The previous evening had alternated between tedium and tension. Marcus had nearly gotten himself caught, as had she, the results of which would have been dire for them both.
And the kiss. The kiss.
It was the kiss that had troubled her sleep the most. In all her imaginings—and she had imagined much after their playacting in the lane—she couldn’t have fathomed instigating such a kiss.
In her novels, the hero was the one who attempted to ravish the lady while she protested in vain. Granted, she had nothing to compare her kiss with Marcus to, but it had been raw and invigorating. Very invigorating.
In fact, kissing Marcus might count as the greatest adventure she’d ever had. So far. Delilah felt like a baby bird, a little wobbly and unsure but determined to fly. Her mother and Lady Casterly, however, were even more determined to clip her wings and keep her confined to her cage.
“You have made it a habit to wander off at events, Delilah. I realize you were not raised in polite Society, but you must understand not only is it bad form, but as an unmarried young lady, you must be accompanied by a chaperone at all times.” The disapproval in Lady Casterly’s voice would have had her knees quaking a week ago.
Everything had changed. Her worries were no longer about how many available lords—young or old—filled her dance card or doing her best to conform to her mother’s expectations. She was part of something bigger. She was helping untangle a web that had claimed at least one life. She might help clear Marcus’s family name and possibly bring justice to her brother Alastair and the other men who’d died as a result of the tainted gunpowder.
“It was an awful crush. I needed to compose myself.” Delilah did her best to keep her expression impassive.
Lady Casterly turned to face her with military precision. Her stare did funny things to Delilah’s insides, as if the older woman had special powers to strip away her bluff to reveal the truth. “You were not in the ladies’ retiring room. Where were you?”
“Nothing happened.” A quiver of defensiveness took up in Delilah’s voice.
Her mother piped up from the corner of the settee. “She wasn’t gone long enough for anyone to notice, Lady Casterly.”
Lady Casterly’s gaze didn’t waver from boring a hole through Delilah. “The same can’t be said about Lord Harrington’s. People noticed when you didn’t return. These disappearances are becoming an unfortunate habit.”
“My constitution is weak, isn’t it, Mother?” Delilah’s hands grew clammy, and she drew them into fists around her skirts. As a matter of fact, she was feeling rather sick with dread at the moment.
Lady Casterly harrumphed and banged her cane on the floor. “Don’t pretend weakness with me, gel. You might have played the simpleton when I agreed to sponsor you, but you are neither weak nor insipid. I recognize the rebellious fire in your blood.”
“Fire?” Delilah’s mother straightened. “Delilah is demure and sweet and pliable.”
Lady Casterly barked a laugh. “Then she has you fooled. This gel—” she jabbed her cane in Delilah’s direction, “—is none of those things. As a matter of fact, I loathe demure and sweet and pliable. I much prefer a little passion in a person. However, not so much that it gets you ruined.”
“I’m not ruined.” Not yet, at least, a little voice sniggered inside Delilah’s head. Very little scandal was required to ruin a lady’s good name and blacken her reputation. It would take the fingers on two hands to count the ruining offenses she had partaken in over the past week.
“Lord Wyndam is a handsome devil, is he not?” Lady Casterly cast raised brows in Delilah’s direction, no doubt hoping to hook a reaction.
Nothing could prevent the heat flooding from her chest into her cheeks, but she injected coolness into her words. “He’s not an ogre, I suppose.”
Another short, disbelieving laugh was Lady Casterly’s response.
Her mother drew herself up, lay her embroidery hoop down, and put on a somber face. “Lord Wyndam is not to be considered. Earl or not, he doesn’t have two farthings to his name. Even worse, his father left the title tainted.”
“I was well acquainted with the old Lord Wyndam. He was a goo
d man, and the rumors are just that. Scurrilous and unproven whispers.” Lady Casterly sniffed dismissively.
“I also heard tell his death was not due to sickness.” Delilah’s mother spoke in hushed tones befitting the blasphemous gossip. In a more normal tone, she added, “Lord Wyndam has no proper connections, whatsoever. He’s half-Irish, for heaven’s sake. For all we know, he’s even a Catholic.”
“Are connections all that matter? Is my happiness not a consideration?” Delilah scooted forward on her seat.
“Has Wyndam made overtures of marriage?” Lady Casterly asked.
“Of course he hasn’t. I’m speaking in general terms. Sir Wallace, for instance.”
“A fine young man and very well connected. He’s so polite and gentle, my dear. You and Sir Wallace would be quite content.” Her mother’s smile sent a shiver up Delilah’s spine.
“Sir Wallace is a prig. And a deceiver. He cares naught for me, only for my dowry. He views our family as—” Delilah couldn’t bring herself to crush her mother’s aspirations of acceptance in genteel Society.
Her mother popped up and loomed over her. She went from delicate matron to intimidating harridan in a blink. “He has never been anything but a gentleman, and you should count yourself lucky he’s considering a match with you.”
Maybe at one time she would have counted herself lucky. Lucky to still be alive. Lucky to be presented in Society. Lucky anyone wanted to marry her. She had forgotten how big and wide and exciting the world was, but she was remembering.
She stood and faced off with her mother. “I’ll not marry Sir Wallace.”
“You will if your father and I decree it.”
“You would force me into an unwanted marriage?”
“If it keeps you safe? Yes.”
Safe. Her mother’s obsession.
As a child, Delilah had relished the monikers their neighbors had bestowed upon her—fearless, a hoyden, an adventurer—and her parents had indulged her high spirits. After all, they had Alastair to carry the family name. Everything had changed after Alastair was killed.
A SINFUL SURRENDER: Spies and Lovers Page 8