Sarah’s knees went weak and she backed up to the wall, leaning on it for support. So many questions filled her head that she hardly knew where to begin. “How do you know such things?” she whispered.
“I’m not your commonplace earl,” he said grimly.
“A smuggler, then?” Sarah asked in disbelief, the very notion sounding ridiculous the moment the words left her mouth.
He leaned the point of one shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “Hardly, though there are times I wish it were that simple.”
With sudden impatience, he pushed away from the wall, gesturing for her to come to him.
Sarah thought to deny him, but the agony in his eyes was too much for her to bear. She walked slowly nearer, slipping her hand into his outstretched palm.
“I am part of a group that works for Whitehall—a group that specializes in cases such as these.”
“You’re a spy?” Sarah asked, her pulse quickening.
“Of sorts, yes,” he confirmed. “It’s hardly what you’re likely thinking, though—not the sort of thing you’d find in a Drury Lane melodrama.”
Sarah’s mind raced. “Were you sent to Lulworth expressly because of this treasure? Did you know of Nigel’s involvement before you came? Is your wound real?” she asked, brushing her knee against his leg where she approximated the injury to be.
“Ow, dammit, woman.” Marcus growled, wincing as he shifted his leg out of her reach. “Yes, the wound is real, and that’s all I’m going to tell you. It’s all I can tell you.”
“Why?” she pressed.
“Have you heard nothing I’ve said?” he demanded. “The less you know, the safer you are.”
Sarah squared her shoulders and frowned at him. “Have I not kept up with you thus far?”
“No, you have not,” he replied sardonically. “Look at you, your dress is torn in three places and you’ve bits of greenery in your hair.”
“But I made it into Lulworth Castle, all the same,” she countered.
Marcus stalked back to the window. “You have to trust me. Just as I needed you to leave Nigel to me, I need you to let this lie.”
“So you weren’t intending to harm Nigel?”
“No. The boy was close to telling us everything after the constable’s questions. He required a small push, that was all.”
Sarah followed him, slipping her arms around his waist, her cheek against his coat just below his right shoulder blade. “But I can be of use.”
“Not if you’re dead,” he said in a desperate tone, turning and crushing Sarah to his chest.
“Marcus,” Sarah responded, going up on tiptoe to gently turn his face to hers so she could kiss him.
He needed no encouragement to deepen the kiss, his tongue pushing into her mouth to claim hers. “I love you, Sarah.” He lifted his head to look down at her, searching her eyes with his own. “If I lost you …”
Sarah wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to do this alone. That she’d learned to trust him and he could do the same with her.
But she sensed he simply could not hear such words from her now.
“I’ll do as I’m told,” she said quietly, burying her face against the warm comfort of his broad chest.
She would try.
“Where is Miss Tisdale?”
Marcus stalked into the billiards room and dropped into an armchair upholstered in deep brown leather. He propped his feet on the matching ottoman and crossed his ankles before answering. “Safely at home with two Corinthians to watch over her and her family.”
Carmichael nodded his approval, and then took aim at a ball. “Not Pattinson and Stewart, I hope.”
Marcus smiled. “I wouldn’t be too hard on them. Sarah is a force to be reckoned with.”
“That, Weston—” Carmichael paused, expertly wielding his billiard cue, “—is an understatement.”
Marcus heard the cue tip crack against the ball before the sphere heavily rolled across the table. “Well done.”
“Hmmph,” Carmichael grunted in satisfaction, then returned the cue to its slot in the carved holder against the paneled wall. “How much did you tell her?”
“Enough to keep her safe,” Marcus replied, resting his head against the back of the chair and closing his eyes.
Carmichael perched on the arm of the heavy, masculine leather chair opposite. “I was under the impression that there wasn’t enough information in the world to guarantee such a thing.”
Marcus purposely kept his eyes closed. “We’ve reached an understanding,” he answered, making it clear that he had nothing more to say on the topic.
“I’m not one to pry—”
“Carmichael,” Marcus interrupted. “Don’t forget that I’ve seen you in action. Clairemont, Marlowe—”
“Marlowe did not follow my advice and look where that got him.”
Marcus nodded. “All right, I’ll give you Marlowe, but you can hardly deny your meddling handiwork with Clairemont.”
“I simply advised the man, nothing more.”
Marcus opened his lids far enough to give Carmichael a disbelieving, narrow-eyed stare. “Yes, well, be that as it may, they are now married.”
“Happily married, mind you,” Carmichael added. “And besides, who said anything about marriage? I’m hardly prepared to lose another agent to a marital union.”
Marcus dropped his feet to the floor and sat up straighter. “You don’t fool me for a minute, Carmichael. You’re like the gander to all of us goslings—”
“I’m fairly certain that the gander, if given the chance, kills his young,” Carmichael said mildly.
Marcus muttered a pithy oath. “Nor will you throw me off with wit.” He pointed an accusing finger at his superior. “I’ll not be led astray—or be shown the path. Whatever it is you do.”
“Well, you clearly feel quite strongly about all of this,” Carmichael replied affably, folding his arms over his dark blue waistcoat.
“I do.” And he did, Marcus realized with surprise. “Tell me,” he said with an abrupt change of subject, “did you make any progress with Nigel?”
Carmichael nodded. “The boy knew nothing of the theft until after Jasper’s death. That’s when Clive told him about their scheme, but by then it was too late. Nigel was in possession of the emerald—which we already knew, of course—and it’s currently locked away in your study. He’d planned on using it to arrange a meeting with Charles and the others.”
“What for?”
“The opportunity to avenge his friends.”
Marcus scratched at the morning stubble on his cheek. “The arrogance of youth.”
“To be sure,” Carmichael answered. “They’ve killed two boys, what would one more be to them? Besides, they need to ensure that no one knows the truth behind the treasure—at least not until it’s in Napoleon’s hands.”
“And the local tie to the French?”
Carmichael sighed. “Nothing. Nigel claims he never saw anyone outside of the regulars—and the three Frenchmen, of course.” He stood and stretched, yawning. “I’m to return to London in the morning.”
“Shorthanded, are we?”
Carmichael pulled on the gold chain of his pocket watch and peered at the time. “Yes, actually. But there’s also been another burglary—or attempted burglary, I should say. We intercepted the emerald, though the thief killed himself before we could question him.”
“I’ll have Marlowe begin negotiations with Charles and see if I can’t make a bit of progress on the local front,” Marcus said.
“You’ll have a time of it repairing things with the boy,” Carmichael added, turning toward the door. “But it’s important that you do so.”
Marcus closed his eyes and leaned his head against the padded backing of the chair once more. “You’re not one to pry, remember?”
“I remember everything, Weston.”
“This, I could become accustomed to,” Marlowe declared, eyeing the female residents of Lul
worth as they danced, sang, and drank their way through the Michelmas Fair.
Marcus sighed wearily. “Yes, I imagine you could, but let’s focus on the task at hand, shall we?”
“And I’d been told you were by far the merriest of the Corinthians,” Marlowe answered with mock disappointment. “Rusticating in the country has had a most disagreeable effect on you.”
Two colorfully dressed jesters stopped to juggle a series of plates next to them, drawing a burst of applause from the surrounding onlookers. Marlowe eyed them with a narrowed glare and they quickly disappeared into the boisterous crowd.
“Was Charles difficult to find?” Marcus asked.
“Not at all. Holed up in the Boot as if he’d been told to do so, which—” Marlowe paused, taking a pint from a serving wench “—I suppose he was.” He pulled a coin from his pocket and tossed it, winking when she deftly caught it and slipped it into her bodice.
Marcus shook his head, refusing the woman’s offer of ale. “And the fair—was that his idea?”
“He insisted. I’d hardly arrange an exchange in the middle of a crowd.”
As a general rule, Marcus didn’t mind crowds. Experience told him the throng often made it easier to shield oneself from detection. But he had much more than himself to be concerned with today. The emerald sat nestled in an inner pocket of his waistcoat.
And the Tisdales were in attendance as well.
His first inclination, upon hearing of Charles’s demand to meet at the fair, was to lock the whole lot of them up in Lulworth Castle.
But he could not be in two places at once.
And so they’d accompanied him, Lady Tisdale flitting about, talking with one friend and then another. Sir Arthur sat at a table brought out for the festivities, slowly sipping at his pint while Dixon spoke to him. Sully stood close by, conversing with a handful of farmers, though he’d been instructed to keep a close watch on the family.
Sarah had heartily agreed when Marcus had insisted she not tell her parents of the Corinthians’ involvement. She feared the knowledge would only upset her father further—and allow her mother yet more opportunities to sigh, moan, cry, and faint—something that Marcus readily agreed was a valid concern.
Counting himself and Marlowe, that meant only two agents plus Sully to complete the exchange and see to Nigel and Sarah’s safety. Not the numbers Marcus would have preferred, but hopefully enough to ensure an uneventful exchange.
A battered fishing boat manned by agents Pattinson and Stewart, with two local ruffians along, lay in wait for the smugglers near the entry to the cove.
“The grimace does not become you, Weston.”
Marcus elbowed Marlowe low in the ribs. “Go. I want to know exactly when Charles arrives and who’s with him when he does.”
Marlowe swept an exaggerated bow and sauntered off, twirling a woman in his arms as he passed, then heading for the pie-maker’s stand.
Marcus couldn’t quell the unease roiling in his gut. He would feel more comfortable when the exchange was complete and Sarah was out of danger. Still, he knew life wouldn’t return to normal—at least, not the normal that he had known before he met her.
Leaning against the side of a booth, he watched Sarah attempt to coax her brother into dancing with her around the maypole. She’d succeeded in getting him to hold a length of red ribbon in his hand, but hadn’t yet managed to actually convince the boy to move.
Marcus had no doubt she would succeed in winning him over, and no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Nigel begrudgingly shuffled his feet. He slowly followed Sarah around the pole, a small smile of amusement lighting his features.
Apparently Sarah had the same power over her brother as she did Marcus. “A force to be reckoned with,” Marcus had called her when speaking with Carmichael.
And she was.
He smiled as she bobbed and weaved with her purple ribbon in the fading sun.
He was so unbelievably grateful to have her on his side.
He was a lucky man indeed.
The dancers slowed as the fiddler finished, laughter filling the air about them, while the villagers who’d been unable to wrap the pole precisely struggled with their ribbons.
Sarah gave Nigel a loving pat on the head before untangling him.
Marcus was glad to see that the dancing seemed to have done some good for the boy. His demeanor was visibly more relaxed as Sarah took him by the hand and led him away from the pole.
Dixon, who’d left his position with Sir Arthur and made his way toward Sarah and Nigel, approached from behind and lightly tapped Sarah on the shoulder.
Marcus stiffened and pushed away from the booth wall. He caught Sully’s attention then looked to where the Tisdales sat, signaling for the valet to stay close to the two.
Dixon took Sarah by the arm and forced her to walk with him toward the edge of the clearing.
Dammit. Marcus hardly relished leaving Nigel, but hoped that his dealings with Dixon would be over quickly.
Marcus moved faster as he shoved his way through the crowd, breaking into a run. Ahead of him, Dixon and Sarah walked into the shade of the woods.
He ran after them, bounding into the underbrush.
“Stop right there,” Marcus called out to the two.
Dixon’s stride slowed as Sarah dug in her heels and refused to go any farther.
The man swung around, still holding tight to Sarah’s arm. “Weston,” he said with irritation, his words clipped. “What do you mean by this intrusion?”
“Surely, even in Lulworth, forcing a woman into the woods is not acceptable courting practice?” Marcus countered, flicking a quick glance at Sarah.
She appeared slightly alarmed, though mostly annoyed.
Marcus gave her a faint reassuring nod, then looked pointedly at Dixon. “Let Miss Tisdale go.”
“I was merely anxious to discuss the situation concerning her brother.” Dixon’s eyes gleamed with impatience.
“I’m well aware of the situation.” Marcus’s mind raced, swiftly considering and discarding options for removing Sarah to safety. The man hadn’t eased his grip on her arm; Marcus fought down the urge to attack and force Dixon to release her; Sarah’s safety was paramount.
“Well, of course you are, Weston,” Dixon continued in an irate tone. “After all, it is, in part, because of you that the poor boy was held captive for no apparent reason, leaving his family to wonder whether they would ever see him again.”
“I’m afraid I have little patience to continue this conversation in Miss Tisdale’s presence, Dixon. Release her.”
“Not just yet,” Marlowe’s familiar voice called.
Marcus shifted slightly, enabling him to keep track of Dixon while looking toward the clearing.
He was surprised to see Marlowe walking toward them, with Nigel and a large, brutish man following closely behind.
“Hardly ideal timing, Marlowe, but it will have to do,” Marcus replied, turning back to fully face Dixon.
“Sorry, my friend,” Marlowe said sardonically, walking past Marcus to where Dixon stood. Nigel and the other man, presumably Charles, followed him.
Marcus turned back to Dixon.
“Nigel, take your sister—”
In an unexpected move, Marlowe attacked Dixon, landing a savage kick to his midsection. The man swayed and Marlowe lashed out again. Dixon hit the ground hard and was rendered senseless.
Marlowe stealthily snatched Sarah and spun her around so that her back was tight against his chest. One hand wrapped around her waist to hold her immobile.
With his other hand, he plucked a gun from the waistband of his breeches and held the weapon to her temple.
“Marlowe,” Marcus said calmly, though his blood ran cold. “Oddly enough, I do not remember discussing this portion of the plan.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” Marlowe tightened his grip and Sarah stiffened as the gun’s barrel touched her skin. “Give the emerald to Charles, Weston.”
The
brute grabbed Nigel and shoved him, causing him to stumble and land against the trunk of a large oak tree.
“No!” Sarah screamed in protest, struggling to free herself from Marlowe’s grip.
“That wasn’t part of the plan, either,” Marlowe said with a grimace.
“And if I agree to hand over the jewel?” Marcus asked, commanding Marlowe’s attention.
“Oh, that’s the fun part,” Marlowe said, his faint smile sardonic. “You’ll have to choose between the two. The boy or the woman—one goes with us, and the other stays.”
Marcus wanted to kill the man with his bare hands.
Then kill himself for allowing such a situation to occur.
But blind rage would not prove helpful now.
“Come, Marlowe, that’s hardly fair,” Marcus said, somehow managing to keep his voice casual and light.
Marlowe squeezed Sarah’s waist, forcing a cry from her throat. “You forget that I’m well aware of what sent Carmichael scurrying back to London. He’s in possession of the seventh emerald.” He gave a little shrug. “I somehow doubt you’ll be inclined to hand it over without the proper inducement.”
“I see. So, assuming that I choose one, how am I assured that the other will be returned safely?”
Marlowe smiled, his amusement palpable. “You’re not. But come now, Weston, there’s no reason this needs to turn ugly. It’s simple enough. Choose.”
“I’ll go,” Sarah got out, her voice quavering with emotion.
“No, Sarah!” Nigel protested. Charles planted a beefy hand in Nigel’s back and pressed him harder against the rough tree bark. The boy cried out in pain but continued to struggle.
Marcus weighed his options. From his training Marcus knew he could not save both Tisdales, and the emerald. One wrong move and Sarah would be dead, with Nigel’s head bashed in for good measure.
If he’d not lost possession of at least one, then perhaps. If Marlowe had not surprised him with his traitorous act, maybe. But all of the ifs in the world would do no good now.
Carmichael had called him an exceptional agent. But even the most extraordinary of spies could do nothing against these odds.
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