She started to shake her head, then paused. Thoughtfully, she admitted, “That’s possible, but if someone killed him, why isn’t there a body? Why was his horse returned?” When Marcus shrugged, she said, “Exactly! If I was going to murder him, once I’d disposed of the body, I would have had a note delivered to Keating stating that I, Whitley, had been called back unexpectedly to London and for Keating to pack my belongings and send them by the first stage back to London. And I’d have sent along enough money to cover the bill and the stage—with a generous tip included. You wouldn’t even have to have an address to send his things to, just instructions that his valise was to be left at the posting house and that someone would pick it up there. With all the comings and goings at the posting house, it would be days or weeks before someone noticed the valise, and by then no one would remember when it arrived or whose it was. As for the horse, it would have disappeared at the same time Whitley did, leaving everyone to assume he rode it back to London.”
Marcus nodded. “It could work. But about Whitley’s note: wouldn’t someone realize it wasn’t in his handwriting? And the horse? Would you dispose of it in the same manner you did Whitley?”
She shot him a disgusted look. “Do you think Keating has ever seen Whitley’s handwriting? Or is that familiar with it? Or that he’s going to keep the note? Of course not! What does Keating care that Whitley returned to London? As for the horse,” she finished triumphantly, “I’d have sold it at the nearest horse market. Whitley certainly wouldn’t be around to object.”
Considering Isabel’s scenario, Marcus decided that Whitley’s disappearance had not been planned. Or, at least, not very well planned—because her plan would have worked. Whitley would have disappeared with no one the wiser. And the lack of a body and the return of the horse made it more likely that there was something else afoot. If a robber or thief had killed Whitley, why not leave the body where it fell? And the horse ... What highwayman worth his weight would simply return a valuable animal? Still, Marcus could not dismiss the idea that someone from Whitley’s past had a hand in the major’s disappearance. Or an agent of France ...
Isabel and Marcus had just arisen from dinner the next evening when Thompson appeared and said that Marcus had visitors awaiting him in his office. Having a fair idea who his visitors were, Marcus pressed a kiss on the back of Isabel’s hand and, ignoring her questioning look, hastened from the room.
He found a worn-looking Jack and a grim-faced Garrett waiting for him in his office. Both men accepted the brandy Marcus offered and, after they were served, Marcus remarked to Jack, “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”
“You could have knocked me over with a feather when he strolled into the house a couple of hours ago,” Garrett said. “He and the servant I sent with the note about Whitley must have passed each other on the road.”
Jack smiled mirthlessly. “No doubt. And Whitley’s disappearance is the worst news I could have received when I returned to Garrett’s.” Jack tipped back his snifter of brandy and took a long swallow. “Time is fleeting and within the week Wellesley’s plans must either move ahead or be changed completely,” he said frankly. “Portugal was our best bet for surprising the French, but now that Whitley has disappeared, we must assume that the memorandum is in the hands of the French.” His gaze moving from one to the other, he added, “Roxbury and I discussed the situation and we concluded that we have wasted enough time—far too much time, truth be told.” His jaw clenched and he ended with, “And that we would have to act quickly to get the truth out of Whitley by any means necessary.”
“Beat it out of him,” Marcus said levelly.
Jack’s eyes met his. “Yes. The time for finessing is past. We’ve wasted what? A week? Ten days? More?” His fine mouth thinned. “Blast it! Why the devil did he have to disappear right now?”
“It doesn’t matter any longer why he disappeared,” Marcus said. “What matters is what we are going to do about it.”
“I agree,” Jack replied. “And since he has disappeared, we must assume that the memorandum is in the hands of the French and act accordingly. I shall leave for London within the hour and give Roxbury the unsettling news that Whitley has disappeared under mysterious circumstances.”
“No, you won’t,” said Garrett decisively. “You’re half dead on your feet. You’d fall off your horse before you rode five miles. I shall go to London. As long as Roxbury is apprised of the situation here, I don’t think it matters which one of us brings him the message.”
Jack looked like he’d argue, but Marcus said quietly, “Jack, he’s right and you know it. Let him go.”
Jack sighed. “Very well.”
There was a smattering of conversation and then the three men rose to their feet, shook hands, and Jack and Garrett departed. Frowning, Marcus went in search of his wife. He found her upstairs in the sitting room adjacent to her bedroom.
Isabel looked up from the lady’s magazine she had been leafing through, questions in her eyes.
Marcus smiled wryly. Now, how was he to handle this? She was going to demand to know what was going on and he had no easy answers for her.
Isabel watched him and her gaze narrowed. “You’re not going to tell me what you spoke about, are you?”
He sat down on the arm of the sofa next to her and admitted, “Not all of it. I shall tell you, though, that Jack and Garrett are greatly mystified by Whitley’s disappearance.”
“Why should they care?” she asked reasonably.
Marcus knew that tone of old, and unless he gave her something that satisfied her, she would badger him to death, demanding answers to questions he could not answer. He thought a moment and then asked, “Do you remember when I would ask about what hold Whitley had over you and you would not tell me?”
She nodded.
“Well, I find myself in a similar position. If I could tell you I would, but for the time being, at least, I can say nothing.”
Isabel wanted to argue, and while she was eaten up with curiosity, she admitted that fair was fair. He had not pushed her when she refused to tell him her secret; she could hardly become angry with him for having one of his own. She was tempted to probe just a little, but the expression on his face told her that she would gain nothing. She sighed and, not happy about the situation, she asked in a small voice, “Will you tell me eventually?”
He smiled, his gray eyes warm and caressing on her face. “The moment I can, I shall.”
With that she had to be content.
While Isabel might have been content, the stranger, who had spent the day hidden in the trees well away from the house and immediate grounds, was not. He had taken his perch high up in one of the big oak trees well before dawn, and at first light had begun scanning the outbuildings and the impressive home. Through his long spyglass, he had watched the servants come and go and had closely studied Isabel and Marcus as they had strolled about enjoying a fine Sunday morning. He’d also noted Garrett’s call that afternoon and had watched him ride away, staring thoughtfully after him. Garrett might prove troublesome.
When darkness fell, he descended the tree and walked to where his horse had been staked out with food and water within easy reach. His expression was abstracted as he mounted and rode away.
His observations today only confirmed what he already suspected: the Sherbrook estate was too large to make his task simple and, as he reminded himself, time was running out. He had to strike and strike swiftly if anything was to be salvaged and, unfortunately, there appeared only one sure way that he could accomplish his task as quickly as possible.
If Whitley was to be believed, the key to solving his current problem lay somewhere within the vast Sherbrook estate. All he had to do, he thought with a grimace, was find it. And he could see only one sure way that would accomplish that task, swiftly and with as little violence as possible. He sighed. It wouldn’t be pretty, but unless something else occurred to him in the next few hours, he wouldn’t have much choice.
He shook his head in disgust. Christ! Sometimes there was little question, indeed, that he really was a bastard.
Chapter 16
Isabel woke Monday morning in Marcus’s bed. She stretched luxuriously, delighting in the feel of a healthy body well used by an inventive lover. Smiling, she stared overhead at the silk canopy, thinking of the night just passed and all the marvelous things she had learned about her own body and her husband’s as well. Marriage, she decided, was wonderful!
Though the hour was early, daylight just filtering in from behind the heavy drapes, before he left several minutes ago she vaguely remembered Marcus pressing a warm kiss on her shoulder and mentioning something about meeting his steward to tour several of the farms on the estate. He would be gone until late afternoon.
Yawning, she sat up in the bed and glanced around for her clothing. Spying her robe slung across one of the chairs and her gown tossed on the floor near the bed, she smiled again. Thinking of the way Marcus had made impatient work of her garments last night and the things he did to her with his mouth and hands, a delicious shiver went down her spine.
She left the bed and, shortly, bathed and gowned and having eaten the toast and tea that Peggy had brought up to her, she hurried across the foyer and out the massive front doors of the house. A smile lit her face as she stepped into the May sunshine and, happier than she had ever thought possible, after telling Thompson her destination, she fairly skipped to the barn.
Since Marcus was away and construction had not started on any of the improvements, she decided that a call on her former father-in-law and his bride was in order. During the few days she’d been in residence at Sherbrook Hall, though her attention had been taken up with other things, such as Marcus’s lovemaking, Lord Manning’s health had never been far from her mind. Today was the perfect time to pay a visit to Manning Court and see for herself how the old baron was faring.
As she walked down the wide aisles of the barn, in spite of all the good things in her life right now, there was, however, one tiny cloud on her horizon. It was so small and, she told herself firmly, not of the utmost importance, that she tried not to dwell on it or allow it to dampen her cheerful mood. Even as she tried to pretend it wasn’t vital to her happiness, she knew she was lying to herself and, despite her best intentions, she couldn’t help wondering how Marcus really felt about her. She knew her own heart, had known for years that she was madly, helplessly in love with Marcus Sherbrook, but what did he feel for her? Was it only mere affection he had for her? Or did he love her as a woman deserves, needs, to be loved by the man who holds her heart?
Even as she led her horse from its stall and absently refused the help of the stable boy who rushed forward to aid her, her mind was on Marcus and whether or not he was in love with her. Quickly and efficiently, she saddled and bridled her horse, a spirited little chestnut mare, and within moments was riding in the direction of Manning Court.
The mare knew the way and Isabel’s thoughts were free to roam as the mare daintily picked her way through the dappled sunlight of the forestland that separated the Manning and Sherbrook estates. It was a lovely morning, but Isabel was only peripherally aware of her surroundings.
She didn’t question for a moment that Marcus had a deep fondness for her. Nor did she question that he took enormous pleasure in her body, in the marriage bed, but she couldn’t pretend that theirs had been a normal courtship and marriage.
Their marriage, she admitted glumly, had not come about because Marcus had really wanted to marry her, but because of a series of complicated circumstances. She smiled faintly. His innate desire to protect her had prompted his brazen announcement to Whitley that they were betrothed, and she’d wager her best horse that it had never occurred to him that he might actually have to marry her. Recalling the expression on his face that night at Manning Court when he had realized that there was no way out of the engagement, her lips drooped. While he had shown no great distress, he certainly hadn’t danced a jig of joy. Forlornly, she reminded herself that the wedding itself had been none of their making: the baron’s fragile health had been as effective as a sword held over their heads. Again, Marcus had had no choice, but, she thought a bit more cheerfully, he had married her without the least reluctance.
She frowned. Had it been only his strong sense of honor and affection for Lord Manning that had prompted his actions? Or simply something more prosaic: the need for a son to carry on the Sherbrook name? She grinned at that thought. Marcus had never struck her as someone who worried about his legacy or what would become of his fortune and estates in the future, and she dismissed the notion that the need for an heir had been behind the ease with which he had accepted their betrothal and marriage.
Isabel had been so lost in her own musings that she had not realized how far she had traveled and, when the mare suddenly stopped, she looked up surprised to find herself in the courtyard in the front of Manning Court. A stable boy came running to hold her horse, the front doors of the mansion opened, and Deering, a broad smile on his face, hurried across the terrace to meet her.
“Oh, madame! It is so good to see you,” he said in greeting. “And I know his lordship and Lady Manning will be very happy that you have come to call.”
Jumping down lightly from the mare, Isabel handed the reins to the stable boy and ran up the steps to join Deering. As they walked toward the house, she asked, “I know it has only been a few days, but how is he doing?”
“Splendidly!” Deering cast her a sly glance. “And forgive me for being so bold, but I must say that marriage appears to agree with you also.”
Isabel laughed. “Oh, it does, Deering, it does indeed.”
She found Lord and Lady Manning sitting in a small stone courtyard at the rear of the house. Roses and peonies, with the occasional tall, graceful willow casting patches of shade here and there, surrounded the area. Shaded by one of the willows, Lord and Lady Manning were taking their ease in a pair of wrought-iron chairs, the hard lines softened by cushions in shades of green and gold. Several other chairs were scattered about and, off to one side, a round iron table held the remains of what had been a light repast.
A huge smile broke across Lord Manning’s face at the sight of Isabel and, rising to his feet, he met her halfway. Holding her shoulders, he stared down into her face and said, “Now this is a pleasant surprise. Clara and I were just talking about you and Marcus and wondering how you were doing in your new home.”
On tiptoe she pressed a kiss to his cheek and replied, “As you can see, I am doing well.” She ran an assessing gaze over him, pleased to see that his gaze was bright and alert and that his color looked good. Most important, the ease with which he had arisen and walked to greet her banished the faint, lingering worry that his illness had left him completely crippled or incapacitated. He had not escaped unscathed, though, and as they rejoined Clara, she was conscious of the slight hesitation to his step and she noticed when he had gripped her shoulders that his left arm was weaker than she would like, but overall, he appeared to be making an excellent recovery.
After a brief hug and a kiss on Clara’s sweetly rose-scented cheek, Isabel took a chair beside the pair of them.
“Would you like some tea, my dear?” Clara asked. “I can ring for Deering. I’m afraid what is on the table is cold by now.”
Isabel shook her head. “No. I’m fine.” She looked from one smiling face to the other and said, “And it would appear that the pair of you are doing just fine, too.”
Lord Manning laid his hand over Clara’s soft, plump one and said, “Indeed we are. We have decided that my illness was actually fortunate. Without it, you’d still be dithering on a wedding date and Clara and I would still be pining for each other.” He beetled his brows at her. “Forgiven me yet for rushing you to the altar?”
“There was never anything to forgive,” Isabel said truthfully. “But next time you wish me to do something, could you choose a less dramatic way to accomplish it?”
Lord M
anning guffawed. “I’ve missed that tart tongue of yours, and Edmund’s spirited presence.” He flashed Clara an apologetic look and added hastily, “Not that Clara and I aren’t content in each other’s company.”
“That’s very true,” Clara said, with a fond smile at him, “but it will be most enjoyable when Edmund is back and stirring things up a bit for the two of us.” She looked at Isabel, an impish gleam in her eyes. “Too much peace and quiet will turn us into a pair of doddering old crotchets. Edmund will keep our step lively . . . and then, of course, I’m sure that you and Marcus will present us with some honorary grandchildren, won’t you, my dear?”
For a moment, Isabel’s mind went blank. With everything that had gone on recently, she’d not yet given any thought to a child. Why, this time next year, she realized excitedly, she could be holding her own child, her and Marcus’s baby in her arms. Joy blossomed through her and she exclaimed, “Oh, I do, indeed, hope so!”
It was mid afternoon when Isabel eventually rode away from Manning Court and toward Sherbrook Hall, taking the path by which she had come. She had not meant to stay so long, but the older couple had pressed her to join them for an alfresco luncheon and she could not deny them. Relaxed and smiling, she was in no hurry to reach home, content simply to enjoy the warm afternoon and dwell on the miraculous path her life had taken.
The secret surrounding Edmund’s birth was safe, and if she had not loved Marcus before, she would have adored him for the way he immediately became her ally in securing Edmund’s future. The burden she had carried for so long had been lifted from her shoulders and, she thought with a faint smile, her pesky virginity had been taken care of, too. Marcus was ... oh, very good at solving problems.
Clara’s mention of possible children flitted through her mind and, dreaming of the children she might someday bear, she was oblivious to the world around her. Her mare gave her the first hint, stopping and snorting in the middle of the narrow path.
Surrender Becomes Her Page 27
