Her blood turned cold.
“Anyone who was there tonight, who had a part in Elise’s death, might have realized you were digging for answers. Perhaps the same men who broke into Charlton Place. Surely they saw the same panic on Lady Hartsham’s face that you saw.” His expression turned grim as he stroked his knuckles across her cheek. “Or they saw yours when you looked at me.”
For once, there was no comfort in his touch. “But why? I don’t know anything for certain.”
“They won’t wait to take the chance that you will.” Worry and grief warred on his brow as he stared a hard warning into her eyes. “They’ll silence you the same way they silenced Elise.”
She swallowed, hard. The sickening sensation returned to the pit of her stomach.
He took her shoulders in his hands. “I care about you, Danielle.” He hesitated, as if he were going to add something more, but then changed his mind with a faint shake of his head. “I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt.”
His soft concern spun through her on a churning wave of confusion and joy. Marcus cared about her, and more than simply because they’d been intimate tonight. A man like him knew how to separate his emotions from such intimacies, even if she found doing so to be simply impossible.
He pulled her into his arms and buried his face in her hair. “Promise me that you won’t go anywhere near Hartsham.”
She shook her head against his shoulder. “Only if you make me the same promise.”
“I promise that we’ll go after Hartsham together.”
He punctuated that dodge with a kiss that grew in heat and intention until she sagged against him. She should have demanded more, made him pledge his word on his honor as an officer and gentleman—
But at that moment, when she had no idea where fate and the future would take them, she was happy simply to be in his arms. More than happy. Arousal began to quiver faintly inside her, and she couldn’t resist placing a kiss to his neck. Then another against his bare shoulder. The hard muscle flexed deliciously beneath her lips. Then lower…
His hand drifted up her back and unfastened the tiny buttons. One by one as she continued to feather kisses across his chest, the buttons slipped free until her bodice hung loose over her bosom.
She slid her mouth away from his and eyed him teasingly with suspicion. “What are you doing?”
Nudging the strap of her chemise out of the way, he placed openmouthed kisses along her bared shoulder. “Right now, kissing you.”
She shivered at the heated promise in his husky voice, that he planned on doing a lot more than just that. “So you watched me dress this entire time—helped me with the laces and buttons, in fact—only to undress me again.” Her breath hitched when his hand slid beneath her bodice to cover her breast. “Why?”
He lifted his head from her neck and stared down at her as if she were a bedlamite. “If you’re going to answer your own question, there’s no point in asking it.”
She bit back a happy laugh as his fingers at her neckline tugged down her corset and chemise, once again stretching out the neckline.
“But to answer you, I’m checking your stockings. A man needs to keep a close eye on his investments.” He placed a kiss to the top of her breast and murmured rakishly against her flesh, “A very close eye.”
“But my stockings aren’t—” She gasped as he slipped his hand inside her corset. “There.”
“Oh?” He caressed her nipple, rubbing it until it drew up taut and aching beneath his fingers and stirred the same aching between her legs. “Then perhaps you should show me where to find them.”
She murmured wantonly, “Lower…”
With a devilish grin against her breast, he complied and lowered his hand down her front to caress her between the legs. “Here?”
She closed her eyes and gave over to his touch with a soft moan. “Close enough.”
Twenty
“You look terrible.”
Marcus cracked open an eye and stared past his valet, who was in the middle of shaving him, at Pearce as his old friend strode unannounced into his bedroom. “Good to know.” Gesturing for his valet to continue removing the last of the two-day stubble, he closed his eyes again. “Because I also feel terrible.”
Good Lord, did he ever. Last night with Danielle had exercised muscles that hadn’t been used in far too many months, leaving him stiff and sore in all kinds of delicious ways. Ways that also left him filled with apprehension. He’d made love to Danielle, but Hartsham’s presence still lingered over them, turning whatever joy they should have had from last night’s intimacies into tangled uncertainty that grew with the light of day, until they’d both remained in preoccupied silence when he returned her to her town house.
Never had he felt more happy yet uneasy in his life—and damnably worried that Danielle would continue to put herself in danger, especially now that she thought she might gain answers about Elise, and that next time, he wouldn’t be there to save her.
“Rough night on the town, eh?”
“You have no idea,” he grumbled from beneath the layer of lather.
“Oh, I bet I have some idea of it.” Amusement laced Pearce’s voice. “One involving a certain petticoat, I’d wager. Did she discover that you’d put guards on her?”
“Far worse than that.”
“Oh?”
“I intend to marry her.”
Stunned silence greeted that announcement and filled the room until the valet finished the last stroke of the blade over his chin and handed him a towel to wipe away whatever stray traces of lather still clung to his face. Then his man deposited the shaving implements onto a tray and excused himself from the room, leaving the two of them alone to talk privately.
Pearce leaned against the wall, his arms crossed casually over his chest. But there was nothing casual about the hard set of his face. “That’s an unexpected turn of events. What happened? Last I’d heard, you were dead set against marriage, especially with that one.”
“Well, you know how courtship goes. Flowers, gifts…” Marcus turned his head back and forth to check the closeness of the shave in the mirror and ran his hand over his face. “Being shot at in Vauxhall Gardens.”
Immediately concerned, Pearce pushed himself away from the wall. “Was she hurt?”
More than he wanted to admit as the memory of her tears pierced him. He shook his head. “Just a cut on her hand from taking a fall as we got away.” He bent over the basin on the washstand to splash cold water onto his face. He wished he could have rinsed away the guilt of putting her into danger as easily as he rinsed away the soap. “She found answers about Elise, and someone tried to kill her for it.”
As he dried his face with the towel, then pulled on the shirt the valet had left out on the bed, he explained the events of last night—heavily censoring all details related to what happened after they’d arrived at the armory. Not only wouldn’t Marcus share that with Pearce, he didn’t want to embarrass himself by thinking too much about how incredible it felt to have her in his arms, her body wrapped around his and mewling sounds of pleasure rising on her flushed lips. Even now, he wanted nothing more than to rush to her town house, strip off her clothes, and make love to her until she surrendered, until she agreed to stop putting herself in danger. Until she agreed to marry him.
First, though, he had to make certain that no one would ever try to harm her again.
“And you believe her?” Pearce pressed. “That the Earl of Hartsham was somehow involved with your sister’s death?”
Marcus had seen the look on Danielle’s face when the countess confessed about Elise. Her shock had been absolute. “I do.”
But a look wasn’t evidence of guilt. He had to prove the earl’s involvement, one way or the other. And if the man were guilty, not even those pot-bellied, self-serving, arrogant nodcocks in the Lords would be able to save him
from hanging. Marcus would make certain of it.
“And where is Miss Williams now?”
Marcus rolled up his left sleeve. “At home.”
“I’ll ask Merritt to double her guard.”
“Thank you.” But even though he trusted Merritt and his men to keep her safe, posting guards was only a temporary solution. He needed to put a permanent end to this, and he’d do it by picking up the investigation right where she left off at Vauxhall. With the Earl of Hartsham.
“Are you in love with her?”
Marcus halted as he reached for his other sleeve. That was a damnably fine, if unexpected, question. One he had no intention of answering.
“I’m going to marry her,” he dodged, “just as soon as she agrees.” If she agreed. He’d negotiated terms of engagement many times with opposing forces, but this time, he had a sinking feeling that he was on the wrong end of the sword.
“Well then, congratulations.” Pearce took a few steps away to perch on the arm of the settee, once more crossing his arms over his chest. But this time, the stare he leveled on Marcus held no amusement whatsoever. “But are you in love with the woman?”
“That’s none of your concern,” he answered firmly in that voice he’d used with subordinate officers when he didn’t want his orders to be questioned.
He fumbled with the sleeve as he rolled it up his forearm. Love… For God’s sake, how could he bring himself to love her when she insisted on placing herself in harm’s way? When he might lose her, too, just as he did Elise?
He had to find a way to convince her to stop working with Nightingale. He wouldn’t survive if anything happened to her.
“It is my business if we have to use her to uncover more answers.” Pearce’s voice held a low warning. “If she’s still keeping secrets from you.”
“She isn’t.” Marcus trusted her more than any other woman he’d ever known. “And we won’t use her like that. Not again.”
“We might not have a choice.” Pearce frowned. “We found out where John Porter worked. He was on the payroll there two years ago.”
Marcus’s hand stilled in midroll on his sleeve. His gaze darted to Pearce. “Where?”
“Venus’s Folly. A brothel in Covent Garden. Merritt’s there right now, trying to dig up more information. Ever hear of it?”
He shook his head and continued to dress, tugging on his braces over his shoulders from where they’d dangled around his hips. “There must be dozens of brothels in Covent Garden, and all of them changing their name on a regular basis.”
“This one’s special. Apparently, it caters to influential gentlemen—those with titles, wealth, judgeships, connections—and provides all kinds of entertainments. All kinds. All you have to do is ask and pay well, and they’ll make whatever arrangements you want. Virgins, whips, ropes…” Pearce bit out, his anger and disgust barely hidden, “Children.”
Good God.
“You name it, they’ll arrange it, even right in your own home to avoid all that bother of having to travel to the brothel in the first place.” Pearce paused. “Or to cover up any other unusual predilections you might have, including beating the woman half to death before tupping her.” His voice turned mocking. “They’ll cater to all your needs, General, from orgies to tamer pursuits.”
Pearce’s words triggered a memory in the back of Marcus’s mind. Tamer…tame.
He wheeled around to face Pearce, a possible connection between Hartsham and Elise rearing its head like a viper. “Hartsham offered to make arrangements for me with women if I wanted them. And not so tame ones, in fact.”
Pearce’s eyes narrowed. “You think he’s connected to the brothel?”
He was damned well going to find out. “Where’s Porter? I want to speak to him.”
“You can’t.”
Christ! He was tired of being told what he couldn’t do. “He’s the only person who knows for certain what Elise was—”
“He’s dead.”
The news struck the air from his lungs with the force of a punch. “When?”
“About four months ago. He was attacked in an alley, his throat slit. His tongue was cut out and nailed to the wall above his dead body.” Pearce arched a brow. “Whoever did it wanted to make a point.”
“Apparently.” Marcus yanked on his waistcoat but didn’t bother with the buttons. “A murder like that didn’t draw anyone’s attention?”
“He’d been in prison several times, arrested for all kinds of crimes, including smuggling. He wasn’t exactly one of England’s finest. Who would notice a man like that, except the men he worked with?”
Elise. Because she’d been purposefully looking for someone with connections to the brothel and the women she wanted to help. Someone with exactly that kind of background. His head swirled with all the secrets she’d kept from him, and he struggled to find a way to sort through them all. “Was there a wife, a lover, landlord—anyone who might have known what he’d been doing with Elise? Anyone else we can talk to?”
Pearce dourly shook his head. “Most likely John Porter wasn’t even his real name.”
A dead witness…a dead end. Marcus bit down a harsh curse. “Then our only lead is the earl.” He rubbed at the knot of frustration forming at his nape. “But why would he be involved with a brothel? What could he gain from it?”
“Blackmail,” Merritt Rivers answered as he strode into the room, dressed head to toe in black and his boot heels making no sound against the floor. He eerily reminded Marcus of those ghost stories adults told children to make them behave, those tales of black wraiths who flew through forests at night under cover of darkness. Dressed as he was, with what was surely a brace of pistols beneath his greatcoat and a dagger up both sleeves, he could certainly be someone’s nightmare.
Merritt nodded his greetings to Pearce, then tugged off his black gloves as his gaze settled on Marcus. “While Pearce was tracking down what happened to John Porter, I investigated the brothel. Their clientele might have been compromised.”
Marcus puzzled, “Compromised—how?”
“I believe that someone’s keeping records of select gentlemen—and even some ladies—who have made use of their special services. A thorough list with names, dates, and services rendered.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I spoke to several of the women and found a pattern.” Tucking his gloves inside his coat, Merritt leaned against the wall. “After every special service”—he didn’t bother hiding the distaste in his voice—“the women are questioned, either by a stranger who pays them well for their information or enticed from them by the next gentleman who pays for their skills. They need the money, and they don’t want problems with the clients, so they share what they know, including everything that was done and said. And I mean everything. Some of it’s depraved enough to destroy lives if word of what these men have done is ever revealed.”
Merritt blew out a harsh breath as if attempting to shed the tarnish that now clung to him from uncovering what the women had done. Marcus understood. He felt the same layer of grime adhering to him.
Merritt continued, “But it’s a different man who approaches the women every time, never giving his real name. Those men are nothing but agents for hire themselves, reporting the information back to whoever engaged them. No one knows who’s keeping the list or why.”
“Scepter,” Marcus said quietly, every inch of him prickling with apprehension.
“Unlikely.” Pearce shook his head as he crossed to the side table to help himself to the brandy. “Blackmail isn’t something a criminal organization would normally do. Too much time and resources spent for too little profit.”
“Pearce is right.” Merritt’s expression turned impenetrable, the same as it did whenever he stepped into court as a barrister. “All the blackmail cases I’ve seen have been the work of individuals, not or
ganizations.”
“An individual with ties to Scepter, then.” Marcus’s mind churned as it attempted to make all the connections between the brothel, Elise, and Hartsham. “The Earl of Hartsham—is he on that list?”
“There’s no way to know.”
Pearce eyed Marcus over the rim of his glass as he took a large swallow. “You think that’s why he killed your sister? Because she found out what kinds of depraved services the earl had been requesting through the brothel, and he was afraid she’d tell his wife?”
“No,” he muttered thoughtfully. “Lady Hartsham already knew about his involvement with the prostitutes. That’s how she knew the names of the women to give to Elise for rescue. I doubt he cared if she knew what he did with those women, but removing them from the brothel is a completely different matter and most likely the reason she’s so terrified of him.” He picked up his cravat and hung it around his neck. “It’s one thing for a wife to know that you’re spending your time enjoying prostitutes. But it’s another thing altogether if that wife is actively working behind your back with her friends to stop you from doing it.”
“So he found out that Elise was interfering with the prostitutes,” Pearce summarized. “And killed her for it.”
The same thing would happen to Danielle, too, if she didn’t stop.
Except—
“Why would Hartsham care if he lost his favorite light skirt?” Marcus asked, desperate to force together the pieces of the puzzle but still unable to make them fit. “He could easily replace her, and immediately, too. London’s filled with women desperate enough to do just about anything for money.”
“Then he was worried your sister would tell more people besides his wife about what he was doing with those women,” Pearce corrected.
“Elise couldn’t reveal that without giving away how she learned of it, which meant she’d be betraying the women and men she was working with.” Marcus shook his head. They were finally getting answers, but none of them were adding up. “She would never have done that.”
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