by Darcy Burke
Maybe the way you feel about Marcus?
What a preposterous thought. And one she didn’t care to ponder. Marcus excited her. He made her feel like a desirable woman, and he honored her opinion and choices. That wasn’t love. That was mutual admiration and respect, as well as attraction.
What was love, then?
“It’s absolutely horrid that Sainsbury, I’m sorry, the Blackguard, can do what he did and still be invited to events to which you are not. He should be the one who is shunned.” Jane glanced at Phoebe apologetically. “Not that you’re shunned.”
“I am, mostly,” Phoebe said. “Or at least ignored, which is fine with me. Let them focus their attention on the Blackguard and whoever is foolish enough to wed him. I pity the woman.” In fact, Phoebe ought to warn her when the time came. The thought of someone in his clutches, as his wife, filled her with anger. That reminded her of Meg, her parents’ former maid who was currently in his employ. Phoebe needed to hire her away from him immediately. She’d speak with her housekeeper as soon as Jane left to determine the best way to accomplish that.
“It so unfair,” Jane said, flopping back against her chair. “All of it. How we’re expected to behave, our lack of choices and control. Even our clothing is more frustrating. Men don’t wear this many undergarments.”
“Some of them do,” Phoebe said with a mischievous grin. “Some men wear corsets.”
Jane arched a blonde brow. “Don’t tell me Ripley is one of them.”
Phoebe gasped. “Good Lord, no. He’s…he’s perfect.”
“I’m seething with jealousy,” Jane said, narrowing her eyes. “I’m afraid I may have to find my own gentleman with whom to have an affair. After I declare my spinsterhood, of course.”
“And when will that be?” Phoebe asked, plucking a biscuit from the tray.
“Soon.” Jane reached for a biscuit too. “Soon.”
The conversation turned to Lavinia’s baby and then Arabella and the fact that she and Graham were leaving to visit Fanny and David the following day. By the time Jane left, Phoebe was feeling quite gratified about her life—her friends, her affair with Marcus, even things with her parents seemed to be improving.
She hoped Marcus was able to achieve whatever he intended with his cousin that night and that he prevented her father from losing any more money. Phoebe would support them, if he would let her, but knew that would be a tough fight.
She’d find out how things went later, as Marcus planned to return that night after meeting with his cousin. Phoebe smiled to herself in anticipation.
Russell Street ran from Covent Garden to Drury Lane and was full of shops and taverns, including the Horn Tavern, which sat closer to Drury Lane. Marcus arrived at around ten o’clock and wasn’t sure what to expect.
Would Drobbit be in the common room? If he wasn’t and Marcus asked for him, would he need to disclose a certain word as had been necessary in Leicester Square?
Making his way to a table in the back corner that afforded him a view of people entering as well as the staircase that led upstairs, presumably to rooms for let, Marcus sat down and ordered an ale. The serving maid who fetched it for him offered her services in plain terms, to which Marcus politely declined. “I’m otherwise engaged.”
It was the reason he often used since he almost always went to Mrs. Alban’s. However, tonight was different because he planned to return to Phoebe’s. For the second time in the same number of nights. It was unprecedented. Not to mention the other times they’d already spent together—and it wasn’t just the sex.
He’d prided himself on having no attachments. His father had drilled that into his brain from a young age, and since he’d admired his father above all others, Marcus had lived his life that way.
This wasn’t an attachment. This was an affair. Phoebe didn’t expect anything from him. She’d never once spoken of the future. They both seemed to want precisely the same thing, and for now, he was content to let their connection run its course.
Connection.
That word was awfully close to attachment.
Marcus snorted as he took a long pull from his tankard. He’d thought too much about her, about them together, today. Enough. He surveyed the room intently, looking for anyone he recognized. Drobbit wasn’t here, nor was Osborne. Neither was Phoebe’s father, thankfully.
As Marcus finished his ale, he considered his options: continue to wait and observe or try to find out if anyone here knew Drobbit. Feeling impatient, he hailed the serving maid.
He flashed her a smile. “Tilly, is it?”
She nodded, her lips parting slightly to reveal a gap between her front teeth. “Change yer mind?”
He ignored her question. “I’m looking for someone who might come here from time to time. Shorter gentleman with a stocky build. Dark hair but light gray eyes—you’d notice them if you were paying attention.”
“I don’t pay much attention to shorter gents. Not unless they pay me.” She laughed. She bent over the table, the bodice of her dress gaping so that he had an unimpeded view of her breasts. “Ye’re not short. And ye don’t have to pay me.”
“That’s awfully generous of you, Tilly. As I said, I am otherwise engaged this evening, but if I could find this gentleman, who knows?” He slid a coin across the table to her.
She picked it up. “I’ll ask Mary. She might be able to help ye.” She put her hand on his thigh and slid it up to his crotch, her thumb brushing against his cock, which wasn’t remotely interested in her attention. “Just remember who helped ye first.”
With a wink, she took herself off. Marcus exhaled. He reached for his tankard, then realized it was empty. A moment later, a younger maid came to his table. She was rather petite, with dark blonde hair and a wide, infectious smile. “’Evening, my lord. Tilly said ye’re looking fer someone.”
Marcus described his cousin once more and immediately saw the light of recognition in her eyes even as her smile dimmed.
“I don’t think I know him, my lord. Sorry.” She started to turn, but Marcus clasped her elbow. Working his hand down her forearm, he held her hand out and pressed several coins into her palm. He closed her fingers over them and encompassed her small hand with his.
“I need to see him. Is he here?” He felt her clench the coins in her hand. It was more than she made in a month.
She nodded. “Upstairs,” she whispered. “But he doesn’t come out. I take him supper every night and fetch his clothes from the laundry.”
He took his hand from hers. “Where upstairs?”
“Last room on the right on the second floor. Please don’t tell him I told ye.” Her plea was quite earnest.
“He hasn’t threatened you, has he?”
“He said if I told anyone he was here, he’d make sure I was tossed out.”
Marcus rose, anticipation thrumming through him now that he’d finally found Drobbit. “I’m not going to tell him, Mary. I promise you.”
She inclined her head. “Thank you.” Then she swept his empty mug from the table, and Marcus made his way through the common room to the stairs.
He climbed up to the first floor and then to the second, where it was much quieter. There were two doors on each side of the gallery. Marcus strode to the last one on the right as Mary had described. Instead of knocking, he tried to just walk in. Unfortunately, the door was bolted.
So he rapped on the wood. When there was no response from within, he knocked more loudly. After another long moment, he pounded his fist. “I’m coming in, whether you open the door or not. And I’ll not pay for any damage.”
Marcus waited, listening quietly for any sign of movement. At last, there were footsteps, followed by the door creaking open. Drobbit ran a hand through his disheveled hair, further messing it.
“How the hell did you find me?”
Marcus pushed open the door, forcing Drobbit to step back, though he kept a grip on the wood. “It took quite some time. Clearly, you didn’t wish to be found.” He
took a quick appraisal of the room. It was small and spartanly furnished, with a narrow bed in the corner and a decrepit seating area in front of a cold hearth.
“No, I did not,” Drobbit snapped as he closed the door. “Shouldn’t you be at a bawdy house by this time of night?”
Marcus turned. “Don’t pretend to know me.”
“How could I?” Drobbit grumbled. “Your father made certain you didn’t associate with our side of the family.” He tossed Marcus a glare as he went to a small table set beneath a window and poured a glass of brandy.
That was only a partial truth. Marcus’s mother had married above her station when she’d wed a marquess, but she’d remained devoted to her family. However, her sister and her husband, Drobbit’s parents, had been rife with jealousy and anger over Marcus’s mother’s good fortune. This had culminated in a physical altercation between Marcus’s uncle and father.
“After your father attacked him. And it was my mother who asked not to associate with her sister and her husband anymore,” Marcus clarified. Perhaps Drobbit hadn’t known that.
Drobbit sipped his drink as he continued to glower at Marcus. “Believe the lies your father told you. I’m certain you wouldn’t remember anything Aunt Helena said.”
Because Marcus had been just four when his mother, Helena, died. He summoned a patronizing smile. “On the contrary, I remember many things, but nothing concerning you or your family, likely because it wasn’t important. And yes, I believe my father, just as you, apparently, believe yours. I didn’t come here to solve the divisions of those who came before us. I came to put a stop to your criminal behavior.”
Drobbit grunted before draining his glass. He clacked it down on the sideboard. “You’re as bloody cold as your father was—maybe even worse. You can’t prove anything.”
“I can, actually. You’re actively trying to swindle someone right now, and I’m confident he’ll provide evidence against you and Osborne. Where is he, by the way? Weren’t you expecting him?” Marcus looked around the room, but there was nowhere to hide.
The sound of Drobbit’s teeth grinding irritated Marcus. “I’m not swindling anyone. I invest for people.”
“Invest in what?” When Drobbit didn’t answer, Marcus made a noise in his throat. “Don’t bother lying to me. I told you in the park to stop cheating people. You ignored me, and now you’ll reap what you sowed. Bow Street will be here as soon as I tell them.”
Lines creased across Drobbit’s wide forehead. “Don’t do that. Please.”
Marcus walked around the room and took inventory. “You stole a great deal of money from people. Surely you should pay for that.” He sent Drobbit a taunting glance. “What did you do with all of it?”
“Nothing, because I didn’t steal it,” Drobbit barked. “I lost it in an investment.”
“Unlikely. You must have it hidden somewhere—I know you like to live extravagantly.” He spun around and cocked his head to the side. “Or did, anyway. Did you really spend it all?”
Drobbit raised his arms and his voice. “Look around you! Where is my cache of riches? I have nothing.”
Marcus strode toward him, his patience thinning. He stopped a bare foot from the smaller man. He didn’t bother modulating his tone. “Don’t waste both our time by pretending you’re guiltless. In addition to Lennox, whom you are currently swindling, Halstead has proof. If you think a duke and a marquess—because I will help him—can’t take you down, you’re living in a fantasy.” He fixed his gaze on Drobbit’s, staring intently into the man’s withering soul. “You will return whatever money you can, and you will provide me a list of those you cheated. I want the latter now.”
“I—I can’t. There really isn’t any money. I’ve spent it all.” His voice, once filling the room with its volume, dwindled to nearly nothing. He turned his head, and for the first time, Marcus saw the resemblance between his cousin and his mother—or at least the small portrait of his mother that his father had kept in his private library. The shape of her nose was the shape of Drobbit’s nose. Right now, looking at his cousin, Marcus saw her. The scent of roses and tea with sugar rose from the distant past.
Marcus swore. His voice rose. “You nearly bankrupted people. Indeed, you probably did. Tell me who else you fleeced.”
“Does it matter? They won’t want their shame known, and there’s nothing to be done now. What money I have must repay a debt.” He flicked a fear-filled glance at Marcus.
Bloody hell. Marcus recalled what Harry had told him about Drobbit being involved with something dubious. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
“The less you know, the better off you’ll be.” Drobbit turned back to the table and poured another glass of brandy. The liquid only filled half the glass, however, because the bottle was empty.
Marcus retreated to the center of the room. “I can’t imagine you’ve developed a sudden concern for my welfare, particularly after you tried to break my head open.”
“We’re family in the end, aren’t we?”
They were, but Marcus didn’t have sympathy to spare. Not for him. “If you tell me from whom you stole, I’ll do my best to ensure you aren’t punished too harshly.”
“I’ll give you a list—tomorrow. My head is pounding.”
“You’ve proven yourself to be thoroughly untrustworthy. Bow Street is around the corner. I should go fetch them now.”
Sweat beaded Drobbit’s forehead. “Please don’t. I promise I’ll come to your house in the morning.” He turned and went to a dresser near the bed. Opening a drawer, he withdrew a small pouch, then came back to Marcus. “Here. This was my mother’s. I swear on her grave I’ll come to your house in the morning.”
Marcus opened the drawstring and emptied the contents into his palm. A necklace spilled out, and he recognized it immediately. It was a cameo carved in carnelian. “This is my mother,” Marcus said, skimming his fingertip over the raised profile.
“Yes. Do you have the one with my mother?” Drobbit asked. Their parents had given them cameos of each other when they were young.
“I do.” Marcus recalled that she wore it, even after she was estranged from her sister. He remembered sitting on her lap and tracing the silhouette, just as he was doing now.
He shouldn’t trust this man. Looking up from the cameo, he pinned Drobbit with an earnest stare. “You swear you’ll be at my house in the morning? I still intend to take you to Bow Street. These crimes cannot go unpunished. The upside is that whatever situation you’ve become involved in will no longer be a problem. I’m sure Bow Street would be quite happy to pursue whatever criminals have forced you to take such drastic measures.”
“Thank you. Truly.” Drobbit seemed to wilt before him. “I don’t want to go on like this. We are family after all.”
“Family who throw rocks at each other,” Marcus murmured, the lingering memory of his mother floating about his head. This swindler was his family—they shared the blood that had flowed through Marcus’s mother’s veins. Drobbit was, in fact, the only link he had left to her. And it was a link he’d never thought much about. Maybe if he had, the man wouldn’t have turned to crime. Marcus wasn’t to blame for the man’s transgressions, but perhaps he could now set him on the right path.
Drobbit turned toward him, his shoulders relaxing, but his jaw remaining taut. “Why do you want a list anyway?”
“Reparations must be made.”
“But I told you I have no money.”
Marcus, however, did. He had more than he could ever spend, and while he couldn’t return everything Drobbit had stolen, he could at least ensure no one was destitute. He’d already done that for his friend, Graham, and he’d do it for whoever else needed the help.
Pocketing the cameo, Marcus turned to go.
“May I have hers?” Drobbit asked as Marcus reached the door. “The cameo with my mother on it?”
Marcus looked back over his shoulder. “Of course. I’ll give it to you in the morning—incentive to come
.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
Closing the door behind him, Marcus made his way downstairs and out of the tavern. He paused outside and glanced up, worried that Drobbit would disappear before morning. He realized a part of him didn’t care, so long as he stopped swindling people.
Marcus made his way to his coach where it waited in Covent Garden. He worked to put the distasteful evening from his mind. Phoebe awaited him, and he looked forward to losing himself in her.
He didn’t want to think of Drobbit. Of Bow Street. Of Phoebe’s father. Or especially of the way he’d just capitulated to sentimentality.
Chapter 13
Phoebe wrapped her dressing gown around herself as she watched Marcus dress. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, which meant he was a bit late leaving. Not that she cared—his tardiness was worth every moment they’d spent causing it.
Her body was still flushed from pleasure, and she knew she’d spend the day in a semigiddy state, much as she’d done the day before. Affairs, she decided, were excellent for one’s well-being.
Marcus was completely dressed save his cravat and boots. As he sat down to don the latter, he asked if she might know where the former had ended up.
Phoebe thought back to the night before when he’d arrived. She’d insisted on stripping every piece of clothing from his body. “You threatened to blindfold me with it.” Only it hadn’t felt threatening. The suggestion had aroused her, and she looked forward to when he would. “Remember, you promised to do that next time.” Discussing “next time” had become one of her favorite pastimes.
She knelt down and saw the cravat under the bed. Bending forward, she reached for the length of silk.
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.
