Marcus’s gaze sharpened. “And why is that? What do you know of Major Whitley?”
Garrett pulled on his right ear where the diamond stud gleamed in the morning light filling the room. “Last night, after I left your mother’s dinner party, I rode into the village looking for some amusement.” He grinned at Marcus. “I’m afraid that I find country life somewhat dull and I was not inclined to drink alone. I stopped at the Stag Horn, thinking to nurse an ale or two before calling upon, ah, a lady that I visit from time to time when I am home.” He smiled ruefully. “There was a convivial group gathered in the tap room and, with one thing and another, I never did get to her house.” Looking reflective, he continued, “It must have been somewhere around four o’clock and I had just decided to leave when there was a great commotion and Whitley staggered into the inn. He was in a terrible state. He was disheveled, his clothing damp and hanging on him by mere strips; his face was bruised and he was screaming that he had been robbed and attacked by a madman who had tried to drown him.”
Marcus’s lips twitched, but his face the picture of concern, he murmured, “How shocking! The poor fellow.”
“Hmm, yes, it was shocking, especially since we don’t as a rule have that sort of thing happening in the neighborhood,” Garrett said slowly, not having missed that slight twitch of Marcus’s lips. “Once Keating had ordered a warmed blanket for Whitley to wrap around himself and poured him a generous brandy, the major had quite a tale to tell. He claimed he was riding home from visiting a friend, a female friend he declined to identify, when he was attacked. The robber, not content with making him empty his purse and having slashed his clothing with a knife, leaving him perilously close to naked, had also tried to drown him. He was rather vague about the location where all this occurred, yet had no trouble recalling other less important details.” Garrett made a face. “Perhaps I am too hard on the fellow. He certainly had a bad night and, once the robber made off, his troubles were still not behind him. Unbeknownst to him, this nefarious individual also cut the girth of his saddle. The girth gave way a few miles from the site of the attack and he had been dumped onto the road. His horse naturally galloped back to the stables, leaving him to walk in his ruined boots, also cut to pieces and soaking wet, I might add, to the inn.”
“What a deplorable incident!” Marcus said with what he hoped was enough outrage to still any suspicion that he had anything to do with Whitley’s misfortune, though why Garrett should think he had escaped him. “I’m sure that Whitley must be thinking of leaving for London at first light.”
“No, he’s not,” Garrett said, his gaze fixed on Marcus. “After the first flurry of excitement had died down and the crowd had dispersed leaving him alone, I joined him by the fire hoping to find out more, if I could.”
“And did you find out more?” Marcus asked in a bored tone.
Garrett’s lips thinned. “No one else was around and so he spoke more freely than he would have otherwise. Whispering and constantly looking over his shoulder, he intimated to me that he believed that you were his robber and he swears to get his revenge on you.”
Marcus’s brows rose. “Now that’s the silliest damn thing I’ve ever heard! The man must have lost his wits. Why would I attack a man I barely know? I only met him one time and, quite frankly, did not care for him. Allow me to assure you that the Sherbrook fortune is large enough and safe enough that I have not been forced to repair the family coffers by stealing from the likes of Whitley.”
Garrett studied him for a moment. “Which is exactly what I told him, but I warn you, Sherbrook, you have an enemy there and he is determined to do you harm.”
Marcus bowed. “And I thank you.” He did not know Garrett well, but Marcus was beginning to think that given the chance, Lord Manning’s nephew might make a very good ally. Garrett might be wild and reckless, but it appeared he had qualities that would make him a good man to have at one’s back in a fight and Marcus liked that. It was clear that Garrett didn’t quite believe that Marcus had been Whitley’s attacker, but he didn’t disbelieve it either.
Smiling at him, Marcus said, “Indulge me if you would.... Is Whitley a particular friend of yours?”
Garrett snorted. “Never laid eyes on the man until the other night.”
“Yet he told you, a virtual stranger, that he suspected me? For all he knew, we are great friends. I wonder why he was so free with his suspicions with you?”
“He was half drunk by then and knew from our previous conversation that I was related by marriage to Mrs. Manning.” Garrett grinned. “He was exhorting me to do all within my power to stop the wedding and save Mrs. Manning from a disastrous marriage. He had, he said, being an old friend, only her best interests at heart and he would be devastated if she married a man he labeled a blackguard and a robber in the bargain.”
Marcus’s gray eyes glinted. “Is that right? I may just have to go pay Whitley a visit and set him straight on a few points.”
Garrett laughed. “Not necessary. I promised to show him how handy I was with my fives and vowed to put a fist in his bone box if he spread such a rumor around the neighborhood.”
“It seems I am in your debt,” Marcus replied lightly.
“My pleasure.” He cast Marcus a troubled glance. “Be careful, Marcus. He means you harm.”
“Again, thank you for the warning.” Reaching for the bell rope that hung nearby, Marcus added, “If there is nothing else, perhaps you would like to see your uncle now?”
Following Marcus’s lead, Garrett nodded and said, “Yes, I would like that very much.”
After Garrett, escorted by Deering, had departed, Marcus settled down in a comfortable chair, poured himself another cup of coffee, and sipped it, his mind busy with what he had just learned. He’d made no real attempt to hide his identity and so he wasn’t surprised that Whitley had guessed who he was. That Whitley had voiced his suspicions aloud to Garrett did surprise him, though. Why? On such short acquaintance did he think Garrett was of his same ilk? Or had Whitley been too drunk to watch his words? Marcus decided that it was most likely the latter, but it was also obvious that Whitley had been casting about trying to cause trouble in any manner he could. He took a sip of his coffee. Yes, that sounded like Whitley. Thinking of the wedding ceremony performed some hours ago, he smiled. Whitley was going to be very, very unhappy when he heard the news.
The day that followed was without incident. Beyond the occasional caller that afternoon and messages of congratulations and concern, the household settled into a more normal routine. Lord Manning slept most of the time, but he roused enough to drink some barley broth and weak tea several times throughout the day. In the afternoon, his valet carefully bathed him and helped him into a fresh nightshirt. Lord Manning was weak and tired, but Marcus felt confident that the old baron was no longer at death’s doorway.
As he had said to Isabel, Marcus had not expected to spend what was technically his wedding night sleeping alone in a bedroom adjacent to his wife’s ex-father-in-law, but as he sank into the welcoming softness of the feather bed that night, he decided it was just as well. He’d been over twenty-four hours without sleep and he rather doubted that he’d have been up to the memorable wedding night he’d envisioned. As sleep caught him, he smiled. He might be exhausted at the moment, but he suspected if Isabel’s snug little body had been pressed next to his that sleep would have been the last thing on his mind.
Marcus rose the next morning feeling much refreshed, and a bath and a change of clothes only helped his sense of well-being. Entering the morning room shortly thereafter, he learned from a beaming Deering that Lord Manning had passed a restful night and had even insisted upon leaving his bed to eat his breakfast at a table hastily set up in his bedroom. Heartened by the good news, after a breakfast of rare sirloin and ale, Marcus went to visit Lord Manning. While he found the baron much improved, it was apparent that the old man was facing a long recovery. Marcus chatted with Lord Manning and Mrs. Appleton, who sat by the bed with a lap full of kn
itting, for a few moments and, having satisfied himself that Lord Manning seemed to be improving, he took his leave and returned downstairs.
Learning that his bride was in her office in the stables, he was on the point of leaving to find her when Jack rode up astride a big gray gelding. As he slowly walked down the last few steps to greet Jack, from the taut expression on his cousin’s face Marcus knew that this was no casual visit. Something serious was afoot. An icy dagger slid through his bowels. He couldn’t help but think of the suddenness in which the baron had gone from a strong, vital man to an invalid; his mother was no longer a young woman.... “My mother?” he demanded. “Is she all right?”
“My visit has nothing to do with your mother,” Jack said hastily, swinging out of the saddle. “I left her in a fine mettle.”
Marcus kept silent as a groom came up and took the reins from Jack’s hand. The groom walked off with the horse and the two men entered the house. As soon as they were closeted in the green salon, Marcus demanded, “If Mother is all right, why the devil are you here—and looking, I might add, as if the end of the world is near?”
Jack gave a short bark of laughter. “Surely not that bad?”
Marcus permitted himself a slight smile. “Near enough. Now what is it?”
His expression once again grim, Jack said, “Sherbrook Hall was broken into last night.”
Marcus stared at him. “Broken into? Housebreakers?” he asked, astonished.
Jack shrugged. “Could have been, but I rather doubt it. This housebreaker seemed to have very specific tastes and bypassed all the silver and plate and appeared to be most interested in what the library and your office might contain. Both rooms were thoroughly searched and left in a shambles.” Carefully, he added, “Your mother and Thompson and the housekeeper assure me, from what they can see, that nothing was taken. An odd sort of housebreaker, don’t you agree?”
Throttling back his anger at the invasion, Marcus snapped, “You think the housebreaking has something to do with Whitley, don’t you?”
Again Jack shrugged. “This is a quiet neighborhood. Housebreaking is uncommon, especially housebreaking in occupied houses and, having gone to all the trouble to break in, to take nothing... .”
Marcus rubbed his chin. “He took nothing because he didn’t find what he was looking for.” He frowned. “Or ... if he is convinced that I am the person who attacked him, and I have it on good authority that he may very well think that, then the whole object could have been simply to strike back at me.”
“Garrett has talked to you, I take it?” At Marcus’s curt nod, Jack went on, “He talked to me, too, relating his conversation with Whitley, so that possibility also occurred to me. Whitley strikes me as a tit-for-tat sort of fellow,” Jack admitted. “He might very well have broken in and left the rooms in a jumble simply for spite. There was an unnecessary degree of violence and destruction about the whole affair that arouses the suspicion that our housebreaker was venting his rage.”
“It has to be that,” Marcus said slowly. “Unless ...” Unless, the unwelcome thought occurred to him, Whitley had been looking for the locket. What the devil, he wondered, was in the bloody thing?
“Unless?” Jack prompted.
Since it was not his secret to reveal, Marcus made a face and said, “Nothing, I am merely thinking aloud.”
Jack looked at him closely. Marcus was not a very good liar, but he could hardly call him on it and he was willing to let the moment slide. “So what do you want to do?” Jack asked.
“For the moment my hands are tied. We don’t know that it was Whitley who broke into the house and I can hardly walk smash up to the man and give him a leveler, now can I?”
“You could,” Jack said with a grin.
Marcus grinned back. “And I may yet. I assume that you have taken steps to ensure that if our housebreaker returns he will not find the house such an easy mark?”
“Yes, Thompson has ordered stout locks installed on the doors and for two of your strongest footmen to sleep on the ground floor of the house for the time being.”
The two men discussed the situation, but when nothing new came to light, eventually Jack took his leave to return to Sherbrook Hall. Marcus was thoughtful after his cousin rode away, wondering about the break-in and the locket, but deciding not to waste time in useless speculation, he pushed the subject away ... for the moment. Whitley was going to have to be dealt with sooner or later and a most un-Marcuslike look crossed his face and his hands curled into fists. Whitley was going to learn painfully that it was rude and impolite to break into another man’s house....
The next twenty-four hours neither dragged nor sped by, but passed at a steady pace. The baron appeared to improve by the minute and, by the next day no one, not even the dour Mr. Seward, considered him at death’s door any longer. Tuesday morning Lord Manning had eyed the bowl of barley broth on his tray and insisted that if they didn’t want him to die of starvation, someone dashed-well-better see to it that he was served some decent food and not this bloody tasteless pap. Edmund let out a whoop, Marcus and Isabel exchanged delighted looks, and Mrs. Appleton’s plump little face was wreathed in smiles. Deering, grinning in a most unbutlerly way, was elated and returned shortly with a tray groaning with scrambled eggs, ham, rashers of bacon, spiced applesauce, and a plate piled high with toast. With Mrs. Appleton seldom far from his side, the baron continued to recover rapidly, and while there were still lingering effects from the stroke, notably a slight droop of his left eyelid and weakness on his left side, by Friday he was finally able to leave his bedroom.
The night Lord Manning joined the family for dinner in the dining room was a joyous one and the staff and family rose to the occasion. The crystal gleamed, the silverware glittered, and the linen tablecloth, tenderly washed and ironed by Mrs. Deering herself, was as white as new-fallen snow. Deering and the footmen moved effortlessly about the big room, seeing that nothing was lacking—and Cook? Well, Cook had outdone herself. Flemish soup; spring lamb, surrounded by early peas and tiny potatoes; fat, green asparagus; buttered lobster; creamed cauliflower; a fine veal roast; and jellies and creams of infinite variety graced the table. Dressed as if for a London soiree—Isabel in a charming confection of rose crepe, Mrs. Appleton wearing a gown of green striped silk, and the gentlemen, including Edmund, in dark coats and pale knee breeches—were all gathered around the table ready to enjoy the leisurely meal. Mrs. Appleton’s brother, Bishop Latimer; Garrett; Jack; and Marcus’s mother had been hastily invited to celebrate the baron’s return to health.
Several toasts were offered and, at the end of the meal, somewhat slowly, the baron rose to his feet and offered a toast. Smiling at Marcus and Isabel, he said, “To the newlyweds: Marcus and Isabel, may you have a long and happy marriage.” The toast was duly drunk and then, a twinkle in his blue eyes, Lord Manning said, “I think it is past time for the pair of you to begin your life together. There is no longer any reason for you to be underfoot here at Manning Court. I think within the next day or so that the new Mr. and Mrs. Sherbrook should take up residence in Sherbrook Hall.”
Isabel’s heart stuttered in her breast. “Oh, but, milord, you still need—”
“Hush, my child,” admonished the baron. “These past days you and Marcus have placed my needs above your own.” He smiled tenderly at her. “While I am most grateful, it is time for your sacrifice, willing though it is, to cease. You have your own lives to live and you don’t need to be wasting any more precious days on a doddering old man.”
“But—” Isabel began helplessly. It was happening too soon, she thought frantically. She’d assumed she had weeks, perhaps months before she’d have to face the reality of being Marcus’s wife, and yet, if the baron had his way, tomorrow night she’d be installed in Sherbrook Hall and there would be no escape. She glanced at Marcus, almost as if seeking his aid.
Their eyes met and, after a long moment, Marcus looked at Lord Manning and said lightly, “As you well know, milord, it is
no sacrifice. We do this gladly, for as long as need be. Isabel and I are planning on being married a long time. Another week or two will cost us nothing.” It wasn’t what he wanted to say but he could not ignore the appeal in those big tawny eyes of hers. The days since their wedding had been hell as far as he was concerned. Knowing his wife lay just down the hall from him had kept Marcus tossing and turning in his bed at Manning Court every bloody night for nearly a week. He didn’t want to think of the evenings he had paced the dark halls of his lordship’s house, aching and yearning to lie abed with his bride. That she felt entirely different had not escaped him and he wondered at her reluctance. Did she find him repulsive? Now that was a rather lowering thought.
His mother’s words broke into his speculation. “I think it is an excellent idea!” Barbara Sherbrook said bracingly. “Now that the marriage has taken place and his lordship is returning to health, I have been thinking of going to Brighton. I don’t wish to return to London and, besides, before long everyone will be coming to the seashore, anyway.” Smiling at her son, she added, “Jack and I have discussed it and he has some business in town and is willing to escort me to Brighton before leaving for London.” She beamed at Isabel. “I think a new bride should have her home all to herself for a few months before she has to put up with a meddling mother-in-law.”
“And I’m sure that you would be wishing me to the very devil,” Jack chimed in. He glanced at Garrett. “As soon as your mother is settled in Brighton and I see to a few things in town, I shall return.” He grinned at Marcus. “You needn’t worry I’ll be underfoot; Garrett has begged me, in view of your marriage, to keep him company at Holcombe.”
Marcus looked from Jack’s guileless face to Garrett’s impassive one. Now what the devil were those two up to? And when had they become such fast friends? It was true he had been preoccupied of late, but what about the memorandum and Whitley’s possible involvement in its theft? Had Jack decided Whitley was innocent? Had the memorandum been found and was no longer a concern? But wouldn’t Jack have told him?
Surrender Becomes Her Page 18
