by Darcy Burke
“I think people know who he was after the incident in the park,” Phoebe argued. “Weren’t there wagers as to whether you would call him out?”
Marcus’s face twitched, and it was the first bit of emotion she’d seen from him. “Yes, but it’s just gossip. As you know, we can’t let that get to us.” He squeezed her hand and looked into her eyes. “Right?”
She knew that was true. It still didn’t make it easier. “Right. But I don’t want people thinking you’re a murderer. You aren’t.”
He smiled and pressed a kiss to her hand. “So long as you don’t think so—and Bow Street—that’s all I care about.”
“I think you’re being awfully blasé about this.”
“How else should I be? I didn’t kill him. I’m not sad he’s dead. The only thing I’m remotely bothered by is the fact that Harry had to show up here and ruin our delightful morning.”
Phoebe arched a brow at him. “That’s all you’re concerned about?”
He drew her into his arms and kissed her soundly. “That and the fact that I can’t see you for a few days.”
“Can’t I just steal into the back of your house like you do here?”
“As much as I would like that, we need to remain apart. It’s only for a few days.”
She gave him a pert look. “What if I don’t care if everyone knows we’re having an affair?”
“What if I do?” He laughed softly, then kissed her again. His lips lingered against hers, and when he drew back, he caressed her cheek. “I’ll send word when I can return.”
“You better send word before that. I want regular updates.”
He stared at her for a brief moment before kissing her cheek. “See you soon,” he whispered. He turned and left.
Phoebe paced the garden room. She couldn’t believe how casually he was taking this news. A Bow Street Runner had tracked him down just past dawn to question him about the murder of his cousin, a man he was known to dislike and was believed to have threatened.
She was going to be a mess until this was all behind them. She paused near the doors leading out to the garden. What did she expect, that he would go to jail? Or worse, be hanged?
The thought of either of those things filled her with a cold dread. She didn’t want to lose him, not even for a few days, which was apparently necessary.
She sank down into one of the chairs at the table by the door. She couldn’t think like this. They were having an affair, nothing more.
Suddenly, she thought of his expression when she’d said she wanted regular information from him. He hadn’t agreed, and he’d looked…bothered. Then, when she’d suggested she maybe didn’t care if people knew about their affair, he’d jokingly said that perhaps he did. Had it been a joke? He wasn’t a man known for affairs. He was known for spending time with courtesans and at brothels, for not having a mistress.
Maybe it would trouble him for people to know about her. About them.
A disquiet ran through her. She hadn’t meant to become attached, to develop feelings for him. And yet, how could she not? He understood her in ways no one ever had. Supported her, cared for her.
She could very easily fall in love with him, if she wasn’t already. What if he knew that? What if this gave him the opportunity to end things before she made him uncomfortable?
What if he was asking her to stay away because he was ready to move on? Two nights with her was already one more night than she should have expected.
There was nothing she could do but wait. Or maybe she ought to put him behind her before he broke her heart.
For the third straight day, Marcus prowled his house. It wasn’t that he couldn’t leave; he didn’t want to. As Anthony had told him the day before, gossip was at a fever pitch, particularly since a revolving cast of Bow Street Runners had taken up residence outside his home not long after he’d returned from Phoebe’s.
He’d started inviting them in for meals yesterday.
Dorne came in, bearing a letter. “This just arrived, my lord.”
Marcus wondered if it was from Phoebe. She’d written to him yesterday telling him she was thinking of him and offering words of support and encouragement that this would all be behind them soon.
It wasn’t from her, however. It was an accounting from the funeral furnisher as well as confirmation that Drobbit would be buried tomorrow morning. Unless Bow Street decided they needed to review the body again.
Marcus tossed the parchment onto his desk and went to pour a glass of port. He’d drunk more than normal the past two days, but would anyone blame him? He was the bloody suspect in a murder investigation. What he really wanted to do was go out and find who’d really killed his cousin. He was close to doing so—let the Runner outside follow him.
Dorne returned and announced that Anthony was here again. Marcus said to send him in. He poured another glass of port and held it out to his friend as soon as he walked in.
Anthony accepted the drink. “Ah, you know me so well. But I thought you told me to stop drinking.”
“I said to stop drinking so much. This is a special occasion.” Marcus took a drink.
“You make it sound important instead of vexing.”
“It’s both.” Marcus went to his favorite chair and flopped into it, stretching his legs out. “I need to get out before I go mad.”
“Are you not supposed to leave?” Anthony took another chair.
“I can, but the Runner outside will follow me.”
Anthony lifted a shoulder. “Does that matter? Unless you’re planning to kill someone else.”
Marcus glared at him.
“Too soon to jest? My apologies.” Anthony sipped his port. “Where do you want to go? Hyde Park? Bond Street? Brooks’s?”
Marcus shuddered. “None of those. Is the gossip not as bad as you said yesterday?”
Anthony winced. “I’m afraid it’s worse. Most people are quite convinced you killed Drobbit. However, it’s now getting out that he was perhaps swindling people, and there are presumptions that he was trying to cheat you and you shot him.”
It shouldn’t have surprised him, and really, it didn’t. “Most people?” he asked. He didn’t care who, except for one person. Did Phoebe think he’d killed his cousin? She didn’t seem to.
He mentally shook himself. It didn’t matter.
“I haven’t taken an official count,” Anthony said. “You don’t actually care, do you?”
“No. I would prefer, however, not to be prosecuted for the murder.”
“Is that a real chance?”
Marcus took another drink. He hadn’t thought so, but Harry hadn’t told him that he was no longer a suspect—or that there were any others. “I can’t be the only person they’re investigating. I can think of several gentlemen with a motive to kill him.”
“Because he was cheating them. Men like Halstead.” Anthony frowned. “Had he already left for Huntwell?”
“I’m not sure. I think they left Wednesday morning.”
“So no.”
Marcus stared at Anthony. “You can’t think Graham had anything to do with this.”
Anthony shook his head and settled back in his chair with a sigh. “No. Just thinking with my mouth.”
“I want to go back to the Horn and poke around, ask some questions.” He specifically wanted to speak with Mary since she’d been so helpful. Someone had to have seen something that night.
“Hasn’t Bow Street probably already done that?” Anthony asked.
“And where are they? Harry hasn’t kept me apprised of their investigation.”
Dorne appeared in the doorway. “Another message has arrived for you, my lord. The lad who delivered it said it was urgent.”
Marcus’s gut clenched. He held up his hand, and Dorne offered the missive. Inclining his head, he turned and left.
Turning the paper over between his fingers, Marcus stared at the note.
A sensation of dread curled through Marcus. He opened the parchment and quickl
y read the contents, his apprehension confirmed. “This is a courtesy note from my friend the Runner, not from Bow Street. A witness has come forward to say he heard me threatening Drobbit the other night at the Horn and then a gunshot.” He let his arm drop, holding the letter in his lap. “I’m going to be arrested.”
Anthony’s face paled. “Fuck. When?”
“I don’t know, but I’m not waiting here.” Marcus stood and tossed the letter on his desk, then finished his port. He set the empty glass on the sideboard. “I’m going to the Horn Tavern.” It was early in the afternoon, but hopefully, Marcus would learn something. If he was stuck at Bow Street, he wouldn’t be able to do anything.
Anthony tossed back the rest of his port and leapt up. “I’ll go with you.”
“I think it’s best if I go alone. You don’t need to be wrapped up in this.”
“I’m your friend. Tell me what I can do to help.”
“Stay here, and if Bow Street comes to arrest me, inform them I’ll be back soon.” Marcus wasn’t trying to evade them. There would be no point in that.
“You’re a marquess,” Anthony said with grave confidence. “You’ll be tried in the Lords, and you’ll plead privilege.”
“Only if they find me guilty of manslaughter.” If he were found guilty of murder, he’d hang. Marcus scowled. “But I didn’t do it.”
Marcus called for Dorne and sent him to fetch his hat and gloves. A few minutes later, after Anthony wished him luck, Marcus made his way from the back of the house to the mews. He crept along quickly to Oxford Street, where he caught a hack to Russell Street.
The people bustling along the street during the day were quite different from late at night. Tradespeople and shoppers mingled along the thoroughfare. Marcus hurried straight to the Horn Tavern and slipped into the dim interior.
The tavern was different too, much quieter and far less crowded. Marcus went directly to the bar and motioned to the barkeeper. The older man shuffled over. “Ye want an ale?”
“Actually, I want to speak with Mary. Is she here?”
“Who wants to know?” the man asked gruffly.
Marcus dropped a few coins on the counter. “Where can I find her?”
The barkeeper scooped up the coins and nodded toward the ceiling. “Top floor. She shares a room with another of the girls.”
“Thank you.” Marcus strode to the stairs and took them two at a time. He hesitated briefly at the second landing, glancing down toward Drobbit’s room. He really was sorry the man’s life had ended that way. But who was behind it?
When he reached the top, Marcus saw several doors. Resigned to guessing, he started with the first door on the left. It took him to the third room to find her. And he hadn’t had to knock because she poked her head out when he rapped on the second door.
Seeing her, Marcus hastened to her door. “May I speak with you?”
She glanced back into the room, then came out, closing the door behind her. Tucking a wayward curl behind her ear, she looked up at him with a sheen of uncertainty in her gaze. “I’m sorry I told Bow Street about you.”
Marcus ground his teeth together. She was the one who’d said she’d heard him arguing? “What did you tell them?”
“That you asked about Mr. Tibbord, and that I told you where to find him.”
“That’s all you said?”
She nodded.
Marcus exhaled as frustration nibbled at his insides. “You didn’t see anything else? No one else visited Mr. Tibbord?”
She bit her lip, and Marcus detected a note of hesitation in her demeanor as she glanced away from him.
“Mary, is there something else you can tell me about that night? Anything at all that would keep me from hanging?”
Her eyes widened just before her brow creased with worry. “There was another man, but I’m not supposed to tell people about him.”
A spark of hope lit in Marcus’s chest. “Why not?”
“There’s some gents who come to see Mr. Tibbord, but unlike you, they know to go directly to Scog, the barkeep. They give Scog a special word, and he sends them straight up because he knows Mr. Tibbord invited them. We’re supposed to ignore those gentlemen, to keep their visits secret.” She took a breath, her face still etched with concern. “I don’t want you to hang, my lord.”
These gentlemen sounded like those who’d “invested” with Drobbit. Marcus’s pulse sped at the prospect of finding another suspect. “What did this man look like?”
“Above average height, but not overly tall. Dark hair with silver in it. He wore a puce waistcoat. I remember because I thought it was pretty.”
A memory flashed in Marcus’s brain. Stewart Lennox had been wearing a puce waistcoat when Marcus had called on him that day. And Mary’s description fit him. The idiot had come to see Drobbit even after Marcus had warned him not to. The bloody fool.
Mary touched his arm. “Please don’t tell anyone I told you.” Her face fell. “But if you don’t, you’ll hang.”
“Don’t worry about that just now,” Marcus said, eager for whatever information she could recall. “Did you hear the gunshot?”
“No. The common room is too loud, I think.”
She had a point. Marcus wondered where this supposed witness who’d gone to Bow Street could have been in order to hear it. Not that it mattered since the witness was lying—there had been no threat and certainly no gunshot before Marcus left.
“What time did you see Lennox—” Marcus silently swore for mentioning his name. “The gentleman with the puce waistcoat?” he asked.
“Midnight, maybe?” She shrugged. “I can’t be certain.”
“One last thing,” he said. “I wondered if you might know who told Bow Street they heard me arguing with Drobbit just before he was shot.”
Mary’s eyes widened with surprise once more. “Someone said that? They would have had to have been outside his door.” She fell silent, her expression locked in consternation. “I don’t recall seeing anyone else come up here, but I could have missed them.”
“Can you think of anything else that happened that night?”
She pondered his question for a long moment. “I can’t.” She shook her head. “I didn’t know Mr. Tibbord very well, but he was always kind to me. I hated seeing him like that.”
“You saw him after he was shot?”
“I’m the one who found him. I took his supper up around one.”
That was awfully late to eat supper, but perhaps she’d been busy. Or perhaps Drobbit had simply kept a very strange schedule.
That meant Drobbit had been killed sometime after Marcus left but before one—a rather narrow window of opportunity. And Lennox had come within that timeframe. Was he the one who’d implicated Marcus? That seemed unlikely, but what did Marcus know? Someone wanted Marcus to take the blame.
All he needed to do was go to Bow Street and tell them Lennox had been here too. Except Marcus wouldn’t do that. If Lennox had killed him, and it seemed he certainly might have, he’d hang. Marcus couldn’t let that happen.
Marcus gave Mary a faint smile. “I appreciate your help.” He reached into his pocket to give her another coin, but she shook her head.
“I can’t take anything more from ye.”
Marcus put his hand back at his side. “I think it’s best if you don’t tell anyone about the man in the puce waistcoat.”
“But won’t it help your cause if I tell Bow Street?”
“No,” Marcus lied. He couldn’t allow Phoebe’s father to hang either. Marcus had a much better chance of surviving a trial and a conviction. “Furthermore, I don’t wish to cause you any trouble. I’ll be fine—I promise.”
He inclined his head, then turned and started down the stairs. As he descended, his mind churned. If he tried to defend himself against Bow Street’s investigation, they’d eventually find Phoebe’s father. Marcus couldn’t let that happen either.
Which meant he had to confess. Anthony’s words vaulted into his mind
: “Claim privilege.” He could, if he were guilty of manslaughter, which he could plead. He could say he was acting in self-defense and likely escape any punishment beyond perhaps a fine. It was disgusting to think that his privilege could save him from the gallows when any other man would likely dangle from the end of a rope.
There was only one thing to be done, and the sooner he did it, the sooner he could put this entire debacle behind him.
But first, he had to pay a call.
Chapter 14
Marcus hadn’t responded to the letter she’d sent the day before. In fact, he hadn’t corresponded with her at all. Phoebe had to accept that their affair had met a rapid demise.
Except she wasn’t ready to accept it. She wanted to fight. But for what? It was an affair with no promises, and by its very nature would be temporary. If it hadn’t ended now, it would end at some point, likely in the near future.
Their time together hadn’t been enough. If not for Drobbit’s murder, she and Marcus would still be together. She was sure of it.
Are you?
Phoebe blinked and refocused on the book she’d been trying—and failing—to read. A shiver tripped along her shoulders. She looked over toward the door to the garden—just as Marcus was closing it.
Snapping the book shut, she jumped up and dropped it in the chair. Her heart began to pound, and her breath snagged in her lungs.
The urge to run to him and throw her arms around his neck was overwhelming. She resisted even while it felt like her body would launch of its own accord.
He glanced toward the open door to the stair vestibule. Phoebe went and closed it. Then she locked it for good measure.
When she turned back to face him, he gave her a weak smile. “Miss me?”
She strode toward him, stopping short of touching him. “Yes. I’ve been so worried.”
He tossed his hat onto a chair and took her hands. He wasn’t wearing gloves. “I can imagine, and I’m sorry. There hasn’t been much to say.”
She couldn’t stand it anymore. Standing on her toes, she put her hands on his face, running her fingers along the familiar planes of his jaw and cheekbones. Then she kissed him.