by Allison Lane
The door finally creaked open.
“Are you lost, miss?”
“This is Cliffside Manor, isn’t it?”
The butler’s mouth tightened, but he nodded.
“Then I’m not lost. Tell Mr. Portland that Mrs. Marlow must speak with him on a matter of g-great urgency. I also need a groom to t-tend to this b-beast” —she gestured at the horse as she stepped inside— “and a c-carriage to fetch the rest of my p-party. We slid into a d-ditch. My c-coachman and a horse are injured. My maid is t-t-tending them, b-but with this storm—” She shrugged, or tried to. Her teeth were chattering worse than ever. The unheated hall was so much warmer than the storm that pain lanced her body.
“Of course, madam.” His irritation gave way to competence. “If you will step this way, the housekeeper will see you warm and dry. I will discover whether Mr. Portland is receiving.” His tone declared that it wasn’t likely. The villager had used the same tone. Apparently Portland was a hermit.
It was on the tip of her tongue to demand an immediate audience, but she bit back the words. The longcase clock on the landing read half past seven. For all she knew, he might have retired for the night. Many elderly men kept early hours. If not for the storm, she would have arrived before dinner, but ten days of rain left even turnpikes muddy, and the lanes that served this corner of Devonshire were all but impassable. If time had pressed less heavily—
But if the errand were less urgent, she wouldn’t be here at all, she admitted, accepting her relegation to the lower orders as she followed the butler to the kitchen. Beggars couldn’t take offense at snubs, and the kitchen would be warm. Besides, if she balked, she would likely never see Portland.
She couldn’t risk it. Her husband had followed Portland’s career and often sang his praises. If anyone could help—
The kitchen’s warmth doubled her over in pain. Darkness engulfed her, numbing her to the hands that caught her collapse.
* * * *
“What is it, Tweed?” Alex asked when his valet entered the library. His needs were minimal, so Tweed doubled as butler. A housekeeper, two maids, and Cook rounded out his staff.
Not for long, murmured his conscience. A wife will demand a full staff, frequent entertainments, Seasons in town…
Cringing at the very thought, he modified the description of his ideal wife. She must prefer the country and never make demands.
“A Mrs. Marlow to see you, sir,” announced Tweed, crossing to close the shutters. “She claims her errand is urgent.”
Marlow.
Tweed continued to speak, but Alex stopped listening. Was she connected to Sir George Marlow? The family didn’t frequent London, so Alex had heard nothing of them in ten years – except for a note from the younger son outlining his suspicions of a neighbor. It had helped Alex unmask a spy ring that included a high-placed traitor at Horse Guards, adding the biggest feather of all to his cap. He owed the son a favor.
But if John needed assistance, he would have written, as he’d done before. Any other Marlow who wanted his services would learn that they were no longer for hire. He had abandoned interest in other people’s problems two years ago.
A grateful wench is easy to seduce, whispered his libido.
True. So it wouldn’t hurt to listen. It might even be entertaining. He had nothing better to do this evening.
His groin stirred more forcefully. She had to be a widow. A wife would let her husband solve her problems. She would never address them alone and would certainly never call on a notorious rake. So Mrs. Marlow might be available. And if she was connected to the very priggish Leicestershire Marlows, she was likely as frustrated as he was.
“Feed her,” he ordered. “I will see her when she is dry. And have Mrs. Crump prepare a bedchamber.”
Tweed raised his brows, but left without further comment.
Mrs. Marlow.
Again Alex opened his mental box on the Marlow case.
She might have married any number of men. Sir George’s grandsons had been unwed ten years ago. They all belonged to the heir, though, so if that was her connection, he would see that she left by morning. Richard Marlow was not a man he would willingly assist, a feeling that extended to his sons, who had been opinionated bores then and had likely grown worse with time.
Or she might have wed one of the cousins. There were dozens, all scrappers. In truth, he didn’t wish to see any of them. The family had complicated the Marlow case by arguing constantly over what had happened, how to resolve it, and who deserved the blame. They’d been so vocal it was a miracle he’d kept the facts from becoming public knowledge.
She might have no connection, of course, for Marlow was a common name. It was mere coincidence that he’d been thinking of Sir George when she arrived – for the first time in years…
Chapter Two
“I haven’t time to change,” protested Eden as a shivering Carver shepherded her upstairs. “I must speak to Mr. Portland immediately.”
“And why would he take you seriously when you look like flotsam scraped from a beach? Do you want to ruin his carpets?” Carver made shooing motions, somehow blocking the hallway when Eden tried to turn around. The girl might be timid in most ways, but when it came to how her charge looked in public, she could turn as high in the instep as the duchess she dreamed of one day serving.
Eden snorted. “You’re the one who needs to change. I stopped dripping an hour ago. And you must check on Fellows. See that he is kept warm. I don’t want him catching lung fever.”
The kitchen fire and a plate of hot soup had rectified her near-faint, though nervousness over this meeting tempered any pleasure. Now that she was about to face Mr. Portland, doubts assailed her. Men rarely listened to women. What if he dismissed her as Richard had done? And what if he was too senile to help? Unless she succeeded, this journey was a waste of money she didn’t have – doubly true now that she’d wrecked her only carriage.
Carver shook her head. “T’ain’t nothing Mr. Portland can do tonight anyway, so you might as well make yourself decent afore you see him. Don’t give him reason to turn you away. Tweed is looking after Fellows and claims he’s set bones more’n once afore now. Fellows is in a right proper room with a good fireplace and all the nostrums you could want. There’s nothing more I can do.”
Eden puffed out air in frustration, but Carver was right. She could hardly drag Portland into a storm. The chill alone would kill him.
Yet each new delay increased her fear that something awful would happen before she returned home. She should never have left Olivia alone. Her sister might be eighteen, but Eden had already been gone a week. And now that Fellows—
She harnessed her turbulent thoughts, for there was nothing she could do at the moment. It was harder to stifle anger and betrayal, but at least she controlled them long enough for Carver to replace her carriage dress with her warmest gown. She even feigned calm while Carver arranged her hair. But the moment the last pin slid into place, she was out the door.
“Take me to Mr. Portland,” she ordered the maid waiting in the hall. “My errand is most urgent.”
“This way, ma’am.” Instead of leading her to the staircase, the maid ushered her onto the narrow servant stairs tucked in a nearby corner. Not until the girl tapped on a door adjacent to the stairs’ bottom did Eden realize she had meant no insult, but had taken the demand for haste to heart.
“Enter.” The voice was strong, setting one fear to rest. Mr. Portland was not quite doddering and might still retain his faculties.
“Mrs. Marlow, sir.” The maid stood aside.
Eden stepped into the room, then froze, her heart sinking through the floor. The man rising from behind the desk was far too young to be retired. Had she tracked down the wrong Portland? Or was this his secretary?
“Why was Mr. Portland not informed of my arrival?” she blurted out, fear making her sound as haughty as Richard. “My errand is more important than his sleep. I’ve already been kept waiting far t
oo long.”
“I am Portland.” The clipped words could freeze fire.
Her knees buckled, sinking her into a chair. “His son. Dear lord. He must have died.”
He shook his head. “It would appear that you are confused, but if you explain your problem, perhaps I can help.”
She examined her host. He was tall, dark, and muscular, but barely older than herself. Icy blue eyes glittered in a face that remained compelling despite several scars. The largest slashed his left cheek from temple to chin in a silvery streak. A more recent one crossed his forehead in a blaze of red. Was that why he was a recluse? Society did not tolerate imperfection.
His gaze trapped hers, sending shivers through her insides that felt decidedly odd.
Tearing her eyes away, she drew a deep breath. “There is only one man who can help me. The Portland I seek retired from the Home Office two years ago.”
“Then you are in the right place. I am he.”
“But—” She stared. “You’re too young. John swore—”
“John Marlow of Marwood Hill, Leicestershire?”
“Marwood Hill was his father’s estate and now belongs to his brother. We lived at Ridley Park.”
“Lived?”
“I still do.” She blinked away tears. “John died ten days ago.”
* * * *
Alex stared, her too young still echoing. But he would deal with that absurdity later.
Face to face, she exuded even more sensuality than he’d hoped. Not that it did him much good, for she was more proper than her arrival had indicated. Both a maid and coachman accompanied her, and she was very new to widowhood.
He studied her more closely. Firelight glinted from gold highlights in her light brown hair and added warmth to cheeks washed white by a high-necked black gown – few people showed to advantage in deep mourning. Her hands were motionless, but clasped so tightly her knuckles would be white beneath her black gloves. Mossy eyes brimmed with pain and grief, recalling his mind to business.
“My condolences on your loss, Mrs. Marlow. John was a good man.”
She nodded.
“What happened?” Her business must be connected to John’s death. Nothing else would drive her into a storm so early in mourning. She must have left from John’s graveside to have tracked him down this soon. Few knew where he lived, for he kept his direction quiet to prevent French retaliation.
“It’s a long story.” She shivered.
“Start at the beginning.” He adjusted the fire screen to throw more warmth in her direction. When Tweed appeared with a tea tray, he let her pour to give her time to pull herself together.
“Are you really the man who helped John’s father?” she asked at last.
He nodded. “Why?”
“You seem so young. I can’t imagine someone your age retiring.”
“Age is not the only reason for retirement.” He drank deeply to banish the chill that always accompanied memory of his final years with the Home Office. He might be only thirty-three, but he felt a hundred. Few knew what his job had entailed. None knew how exhausting it had been. Oh, Sidmouth thought he knew, but only someone who had worked in secret for months and years at a time could appreciate the strain of never knowing if one of the men he hunted would penetrate his disguise and kill him. Several had tried.
She pursed her lips, again sparking his libido. He fought it down – it was far too soon to test her receptiveness to a liaison – and forced his mind back to business. His age clearly bothered her, though why she’d thought a doddering fool could help, he didn’t know. “If my retirement was a problem, you wouldn’t be here,” he said at last.
“True.” Another pause ended when she blew out a deep sigh. “John said you were the best. He made me swear that if I ever needed help, I would go to you.”
His premonitions suddenly coalesced into an icy knot in his stomach. Pulling his chair close, he laid a hand over hers and squeezed. “Start at the beginning, Mrs. Marlow. What is wrong?”
“Do you recall the theft at Marwood Hill?”
“Of course. Sir Harold Iverson seduced John’s wife Christine and convinced her to steal two Celtic amulets, a Grecian necklace, a Minoan urn, a Roman perfume bottle, and a primitive staff, supposedly from Sarsos. He killed her, then fled for his home on the Isle of Mann, drowning when his ship foundered in a storm. His accomplice was a distant cousin, who held a living ten miles from Marwood. When I uncovered his role, the cousin shot himself rather than face an inquiry.”
“He was my father.”
“What?” Alex snatched his hand away. “Who?”
“Mr. Higgins – Sir Harold’s cousin. I found his body when I returned from a month with friends.” She choked back tears.
Dear Lord! He hadn’t known Higgins had a family. Such ignorance tarnished an otherwise perfect handling of the case.
Alex brushed the thought aside. She’d been away during Sir Harold’s visit, so she would have known nothing useful anyway. By the time he’d identified Higgins, Sir Harold had already been dead.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t hear about his death until I’d left Marwood Hill.” That suicide had ended the case, sending him back to London.
Now guilt lashed him. His interview with Higgins had forced the man to crawl out of his books and confront the real world. What Higgins found had pushed him to take his own life – the first of so many deaths Alex had directly or indirectly caused. But not one he could dismiss.
Mrs. Marlow shook her head. “I didn’t know he’d been involved with Christine’s death until a year later – he’d only scrawled, Forgive me on a scrap of paper, without further explanation. I wouldn’t know yet if John hadn’t mentioned it while in his cups.” Pain threaded her voice. And anger. At whom, he wasn’t sure, but she had yet to set the past behind her. Her hands twisted in her lap.
He tipped her chin up until she met his eyes. “When did you wed?”
“A week after Papa’s death.”
John had remarried a fortnight after losing his wife? Something wasn’t right. “Had you known him long?”
“We met when he offered for me. I had to accept. Marriage was the answer to my prayers, for Papa left no savings, and the new vicar— If not for John, we would have ended in the workhouse.”
“We?”
“My sister, Olivia. She was eight.”
His guilt increased. For the first time, he admitted that he’d mishandled the confrontation with Higgins. Though he’d long considered Higgins a full accomplice, in truth the man had not knowingly aided Sir Harold. Housing a cousin while he was in the area was an act of kindness. Talking about the neighborhood was equally innocuous – something every host did. Marwood Hill wasn’t as well-known as Belvoir Castle a few miles to the north, but it was a large enough property to be of interest to travelers. And everyone for miles around knew that Marlow collected antiquities, so revealing the information was hardly criminal. It wasn’t even dishonorable.
So it wasn’t Higgins’s fault that Sir Harold had preyed upon his naïveté. Alex had failed to make that clear, not realizing that shock and guilt would drive the man to suicide. It was a mistake he’d shrugged off at the time, or tried to. But it explained why he’d never forgotten the Marlow case and why he’d mentally exaggerated Higgins’s role.
Now his guilt was worse. His sloppy interview had orphaned Higgins’s daughters, forcing the eldest into marriage with a man already nearly sixty. No wonder she remained angry.
Yet she sought his help.
Mrs. Marlow continued her tale. “John was impressed with how you handled the situation. No rumors escaped to lure other greedy fools to his father’s collection. No questions remained to haunt the family. He described you as efficient, thorough, and discreet.”
Alex nodded. Those traits formed the core of his reputation at the Home Office. Sir George wasn’t the only one who demanded discretion. The government never revealed how many spies had infiltrated its ranks. Nor did it confir
m that traitors had occupied high-level positions. Few even suspected the government employed men like him. Alex had received the trickiest assignments because Sidmouth knew he would bring the culprits to justice while leaving the public in ignorance.
Mrs. Marlow clasped her hands to halt their twisting. “John was satisfied with your investigation. But he was not happy about his father. The theft changed Sir George. Deciding that the collection was evil, he locked it away, convinced that its influence had killed Christine. Even after his finances failed, he refused to sell any of it. John was annoyed, for there were several pieces he wanted to buy for his own collection.
Alex rose to add several lumps of coal to the fire. “I didn’t know John had a collection.”
“It’s small – only ninety-three pieces. He never liked his father’s habit of buying anything that caught his eye. It made for a hodge-podge that was hard to display, hard to catalogue, and impossible to keep track of. John concentrated on items connected to legend or scandal.”
“Such as?” The ice ball grew. A man intrigued by legend would have revered the Sarsos staff. What if he’d taken advantage of his wife’s elopement to steal it for himself? That the possibility had never before crossed his mind stabbed his soul. Had he botched everything? Mistakes were never acceptable, and if one had crept into an official report…
He shuddered.
Mrs. Marlow shrugged. “He had a Borgia ring, the letters cited in the Uxbridge divorce, a spatter of Lord Percival’s blood—”
“What?”
“Percival’s assassination occurred at the House of Commons. One of the tiles where he fell was loose. John’s agent knew his interests…” She shrugged. “Those, at least, were real, but most of his items were of questionable authenticity at best, and some had to be hoaxes – King Arthur’s sandals, Boadicea’s sword… Others were real enough, but exaggerated in importance – a sliver of the true cross, the Sarsos stone…” Her voice cracked.
“The Sarsos stone.” He could barely force out the words.
