A Duke is Never Enough
Page 18
Marcus caressed her backside. “This is an excellent view. I think next time might also need to include shagging you from behind. Or perhaps that will be the time after.”
Desire sparked in Phoebe’s core as she sat back with the cravat in her hand. Marcus gave her his hand and helped her up. He tugged her gently against his chest.
“Tell me more,” Phoebe said huskily as she wrapped the cravat around his neck and held onto the ends, pulling his head down to hers.
“You on all fours. Me behind you. My cock in your pussy, and my mouth on the back of your neck while you scream my name.”
Heat flooded Phoebe’s sex. She loved the way he talked to her when they were alone. “Can next time be now?”
He chuckled. “You’re insatiable.” Then he kissed her, a long, delicious exploration of her mouth that only stoked her lust.
Stepping back, he grinned as he took hold of the cravat and began to tie it.
“And you’re provoking.”
“No more than you.” His gaze dipped over her. “Prancing around in almost nothing and putting your arse in the air.”
She turned and wiggled her backside, drawing a laugh from him.
A rap on her door startled them both. Phoebe’s maid knew she had a guest—it had been necessary to instruct her to stay away.
Phoebe went to the door, where a visibly concerned Page stood. “I’m so sorry to bother you, miss, but I’m afraid there’s someone here.”
“At this hour?” Phoebe asked, aware that Marcus, who was standing out of Page’s view, had taken a step toward them.
Page nodded. “It’s a Bow Street Runner.” She sounded petrified.
“Thank you, Page. I’ll be right down.”
Before Phoebe could close the door, Page said, “He’s not here to see you. He’s here to see him. Lord Ripley.”
Phoebe’s stomach dropped to the basement. She gripped the door tightly. “I see. We’ll be right down, then.”
“Do you want me to help you dress?” Page asked.
“No, thank you.” Phoebe closed the door and stared at Marcus. “How does he know you’re here? Why is he looking for you in the first place?”
Marcus frowned. “It might be about my cousin. I’d asked a friend of mine who’s a Runner to find him.”
“But you found him.”
“Yes, however, I didn’t tell him to stop looking. I came here straight after seeing Drobbit last night.”
“The Runner must have found him, then.”
“He must have.” Marcus exhaled. “Do you want to dress? He can wait a few minutes.”
“I suppose.”
With Marcus’s assistance, she donned a simple day dress and pulled her hair up into a simple style. They were downstairs a short time later and walked together into the garden room, where the Runner was waiting.
“I’m surprised to see you here and at this hour,” Marcus said. “Phoebe, allow me to present my friend, Harry Sheffield. Harry, this is Miss Phoebe Lennox.”
Sheffield, a thick-chested man with auburn hair and piercing tawny eyes, bowed. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Lennox. Please forgive my intrusion at this impolite hour.”
“I’m sure your reason for coming is important,” Phoebe said. “Shall we sit?”
“That’s not necessary. I’m afraid I’ve come with bad news.” He looked to Marcus. “Your cousin was found dead a couple of hours ago.”
Though Phoebe wasn’t touching Marcus, he was close enough to her side that she felt him tense.
“How did he die?” Marcus’s voice was calm. Unemotional.
“He was shot—square in the chest.”
“Where did this happen?”
“At the Horn Tavern.” Sheffield frowned briefly. “I believe you know where that is.”
Something passed between the two men, an unspoken communication. Of course Marcus knew where that was—he’d been there last night. Phoebe began to grow alarmed.
Marcus inclined his head. “I do.”
“You were there last night,” Sheffield said. It wasn’t a question. He knew Marcus had been there. “You saw him.”
Phoebe’s heart pounded as apprehension coiled inside her. She didn’t like the look in Sheffield’s gaze—it was rife with doubt and suspicion.
“I did, and he was alive when I left.” Marcus’s voice was still remarkably calm, as was his expression. He looked as if they were discussing the day’s weather!
“What time was that?” Sheffield asked.
“Between eleven and midnight.”
Sheffield nodded. “You didn’t tell me you’d found him.”
“I’d planned to today. It was rather late last night.”
“And yet, the Horn is not that far from Bow Street.”
Marcus smiled, but it lacked his usual charm. “As you can see, I had a far more desirable engagement.”
Sheffield sent a half smile in Phoebe’s direction, then looked back to Marcus. “Was Drobbit alone?”
“Yes. He was also a bit drunk.”
“Did you see anyone around his room? Anything that would draw notice or suspicion?”
Marcus shook his head. “No, the floor was empty. I didn’t see anyone on my way up nor on my way down.”
“Did anyone see you leave?”
Marcus shrugged. “I can’t say. I didn’t speak to anyone on my way out.”
Sheffield went silent, and Phoebe could have sworn she could hear his mind turning. She wanted to blurt that Marcus couldn’t have killed Drobbit. He wouldn’t have.
“You should go home,” Sheffield said.
“As it happens, I am on my way there now.”
“Good. Stay there. I’ll be by later to ask you a few more questions.”
Marcus gave him a nod. “You’re welcome anytime.” He sounded so smooth, so collected, while Phoebe wanted to scream.
Sheffield left, and Phoebe grabbed Marcus’s hand, squeezing as she turned to him. Marcus shook his head sharply and lifted his finger to his mouth. He let go of her hand and went to the door where he stood, listening.
Phoebe also listened, and when the front door closed, Marcus visibly relaxed. He also swore violently.
Then he shot her a look of apology.
“He was alive when you left,” Phoebe said.
“Yes.” Marcus pulled something from his pocket and looked down at it in his palm. “He gave me this.”
Phoebe went to him and saw the cameo resting in his grasp. “It’s beautiful. Why did he give it to you?”
“This is my mother. It belonged to his mother. I have one of her that belonged to my mother. I was going to give it to him this morning when he came to my house.” Marcus had told her of their conversation last night, that Drobbit’s swindling was finished, but he hadn’t mentioned the cameos.
She touched his arm, moving close to him. “I’m so sorry.”
He inhaled sharply. “I’m not sad. How can I be when I scarcely knew him?”
“Wasn’t he your only family?”
“Yes, but he may as well have been anyone.” His voice was oddly cold, and it made her shiver. He sounded nothing like the ardent lover who came to her bed.
They were quiet a moment, then he turned to face her. “My butler must have told him where I was.”
“Your retainers know you’ve been spending the night here?”
“Just my butler and my valet. They are incredibly discreet. Like your maid.” He frowned, then took her hand. “I need to go home, and we can’t see each other for a few days. I will be at the center of gossip, more than usual,” he said with a grin that did nothing to ease the turmoil wreaking havoc inside Phoebe. “We mustn’t do anything to draw attention.”
Gossip. It would be terrible. Speaking of gossip… “You fought with Drobbit in the park. Worse than that, people say you threatened to kill him. Now they’ll say you did.”
“If anyone even knows he’s dead. It’s not as if Drobbit was a known member of Society.”
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 par
chment and quickly 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?”