by Alyson Chase
Liz snuggled deeper into his embrace.
It was right.
Chapter Twenty-One
“It will work!” Liz argued. She waved her hand, amber liquid sloshing over the side of the crystal glass she held. “I’ve created a good relationship with the guard. He’ll take the bribe not only because he needs the money, but because he has three granddaughters of his own. He wouldn’t want them in that horrible place. I can use that, appeal to his compassion.”
Marcus held up an ornate pair of shears. Its gilt-gold handles were studded with red, blue, and green stones. The scissors looked just as absurd now as they had when Liz had first seen them on a side table in Westmore’s study months ago. Who would use such a pair? As a tool, they were much too ornate; as an objet d’art, well, they were a stupid pair of shears.
But they’d made an easy object to hide in the folds of her skirt, slip into her satchel. A precautionary measure she’d taken three months earlier, knowing even then she might need money to aid in her sister’s escape. The earl had probably never even noticed them missing among the unbridled clutter of his rooms.
It had been the only object of value she’d taken from her room when Marcus had hustled her to his town house, and quick to catch his eye. When she’d told him who the shears belonged to, he’d raised one golden eyebrow and then pocketed the stolen goods, tucking her small bundle of clothes under one arm and ushering her to his coach with his other. Without time to think about the proprieties, she’d been neatly ensconced in his home, settled in front of a roaring fire in his salon, a glass of sherry in her hand.
Looking around the warm sage green room, she ran her hand over the golden brocade of the settee she rested upon. Her booted feet sank a full inch into the plush burgundy rug beneath her feet. She wasn’t going to complain about the step up in her living quarters.
She rubbed her forehead. Still, this latest turn of events had her confused. After what she’d done to Marcus, she didn’t see how she could fit into his life. She had tried to overhear what he had directed his footman to do with her package of clothing when he’d handed it off at the front door. Did he tell the man to take her belongings to the duke’s own rooms, a guest room, or the servants’ quarters?
“Liz?” His low rumble of a voice brought her to her senses. He waved the shears in front of her. “You hoped to use these to bribe the prison guard into releasing your sister?”
“Yes.” She furrowed her brow and peered at what she had assumed were precious jewels adorning the handle. “Why? Is it not valuable?” A low buzzing sounded in her ears. “That’s all I have to rescue Amanda. It has to be valuable.”
Marcus squatted before her and ran a hand up and down her thigh. “Yes, it’s worth quite a bit. More than a prison guard is ever likely to see. But that’s irrelevant. Do you seriously think I would let you use stolen goods to commit bribery?”
She placed her glass down on a side table with a decided clack. She stood, forcing Marcus to rise, as well. “What difference does one more crime make?” she asked bitterly.
He grasped her shoulders. “I sent a note to the Lord Chancellor. We’ll work it out through the system. If—”
“The system?” She couldn’t keep the derision from her voice. “The same system that offers no help to a girl abused by her father, but punishes her for protecting herself?”
His voice remained even. “If that doesn’t work, then I will resort to bribery. Using my own funds.”
She clutched at his forearms. “Marcus, I don’t think we can wait. You don’t know what it’s like in there. Amanda is hardly eating; she stopped talking. And it is so very cold.” Eyes burning, she turned her face aside to hide her weakness. “I need to get her out now. I don’t think we can wait until you exhaust the official channels.”
“All right.” He gathered her close, cupping her head to rest on his chest. The strong, steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek eased the tension between her shoulders. “Give me the morning to make some more inquiries through the House of Lords. Then you’ll take me to meet this bribable prison guard, and I’ll examine the possible exits from the prison.” His words whispered over her brow. “We’ll get your sister out.”
She sank into him, arms wrapped snugly around his waist. “Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “Uh, if we do have to secure Mandy’s release through nonlegal means—”
“Prison break.”
“—then I’ll have to take my sister away somewhere the authorities can’t find her. I had been thinking about taking her to Italy.”
The muscles of his chest turned to stone. After a moment’s pause, he said, “We’ll worry about where to keep you sister safe later. For now, why don’t you get a couple hours’ rest while I make my inquiries?”
“All right.” She stilled in his arms. “Which room do I go to?” She tried to make the question sound light, as if the answer didn’t have the power to break her. If he sent her to a maid’s room it was better than she deserved. But she couldn’t be a servant who was tupped by her master. She wouldn’t settle for that sort of relationship.
He tipped her chin up. “Any time you lay your head down in my house, it will be in my bed.” A smile tugged at her lips as Marcus lowered his head to brush his mouth against hers. “Come on. I’ll show you the way.”
He led her up a flight of stairs. Her feet dragged, exhaustion settling in her limbs. It hit her like a wave, her body recognizing that she could now relax, that she no longer had to fight alone. Marcus would stand beside her.
His hand was warm around hers, and she gave it a squeeze, delighting in the quirk it brought to his lips. He was a good man. Once he met her sister, saw Amanda in those squalid conditions, he would agree to her rescue plan. She yawned widely. By tonight, Mandy would be free.
She didn’t put up a word of protest when he undressed her, playfully slapping her hands aside when she tried to help. He dropped a soft linen shirt over her head, one of his, the scent of bay rum enveloping her. She inhaled deeply, loving his smell, but wanting to get it at the source. Wrapping her arms around him, she rose up on her toes, buried her nose at his neck. “Thank you,” she whispered, emotion clogging her throat.
They stood that way until she began to fall asleep on her feet. Marcus scooped her up and tucked her in, the silk of the sheets cool against her bare legs. She reached for him. “Join me? You need a couple hours’ sleep, too.”
“Later.” He smiled wickedly at her. “That I can promise.”
Liz wanted to argue, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. She closed her eyes only to blink awake as harsh sunlight streamed into the room. She pushed herself to a sitting position and her head swam, fuzzy from not enough sleep. Pushing the covers aside, she swung her legs off the bed and saw a small clock on the fireplace mantel. Not quite noon yet. It promised to be a long day and it was time to get it started.
She searched for the dress she’d worn the day before, wondered where her bundle of clothing had ended up. Neither was in the duke’s bedroom. But a burgundy silk gown with a white lace fichu lay draped over the settee, a pair of matching slippers nestled at the base. “Huh.” With no other option, she dressed in the gown, knowing it was the finest garment to ever grace her body. But highly impractical for a prison break.
She hurried down the stairs. Reaching the first floor, she poked her head in several rooms before finding Marcus behind a desk in his study. She paused at the door. The room was different, less grand than his study at Hartsworth, but the image of her duke behind his desk was all too familiar.
The oak writing table was only about half as large as the one in Hartsworth’s study, but it was sturdy enough. If she leaned over it lengthwise her hands should be able to reach the outer edge. Her bottom tingled at the thought of what Marcus could do to her on that desk.
“What are you smiling at?” His amused voice cut into her reverie.
Her cheeks heated. “Nothing,” she said. She stood before his desk. “Have you learned any
thing through your contacts this morning?”
He sighed. “Nothing yet. But I haven’t yet given up hope on resolving this through political channels.”
“But you will still come with me to Newgate today? That hasn’t changed?”
His brow drew down for a moment. “No, nothing has changed.” Standing, Marcus slid his arms into a navy coat, buttoned it up. “Come. We will take our luncheon on our way to the prison. There is a little coffeehouse that serves the best pastries along the way.”
He smoothed the ends of his cravat under his collar, reminding Liz of her own attire. “Marcus, about this dress, I couldn’t find any of my own clothes to wear.”
“Of course you couldn’t. I had them burned.” He plucked a walking stick out from a brass canister by the door, tapping the silver lion’s head firmly against one palm. “They were threadbare, hardly more than rags.”
Her jaw dropped open. “But—”
“I will, of course, replace them.” He nodded at the gown she wore. “My servants found that in one of the attics. My mother’s, I believe. I will have a modiste come by to supply you with a more suitable wardrobe.”
“More suitable for what, exactly?” Her previous dresses, while not as finely made as the duke’s chambermaid uniform, were in keeping with her new, diminished station in life. A duke’s mistress would be dressed much better. Her stomach flipped. She could enjoy being his mistress for a while. Having her physical needs met, in Marcus’s bed, over his knee . . .
Yes, it could be very pleasant.
Then why did the thought hollow her out inside? Could she stand by as Marcus eventually wed, had a family, and suffer the ignominy in silence?
She took a deep breath. She didn’t know, but right now it didn’t matter. Those questions would keep for another day. Her sister’s release wouldn’t. She smiled up at him. “No matter. Shall we go?”
They took his landau, the elegant conveyance pulled by two matching bays. When they stopped in front of a small shop, Liz was surprised to see a line of expensive carriages in front of the unassuming coffeehouse. Obviously this was the place to see and be seen for the Beau Monde.
Marcus ushered her inside the bustling eatery, his hand warm on her elbow. “Ah, good. I was hoping they’d be here.”
Liz looked in the direction he pointed. Four men sat around a rectangular wood table in the corner. Two of the men had their backs to the wall, the others sitting at forty-five-degree angles from their friends so no one had his back to the door. A huge man at the table said something, and they all laughed, giving the appearance of friends without any cares in the world. But to a man their eyes were wary, observing the crowd with a sharp focus. More than one eyebrow quirked up when the group caught sight of Marcus and herself heading their way.
“Gentlemen.” Marcus grabbed two nearby chairs and placed them on the open side of their table, holding her chair out for her as she sat. “Everyone. This is Miss Sm—Wilcox.” His lips twisted. “Miss Wilcox, these louts are Julius Blackwell, the Earl of Rothchild. You may remember him from the great trouser/pantaloon debate. . . .”
He pointed to a striking black-haired man with a bushy beard. “Maximillian Atwood, Baron of Sutton . . .” The huge man with a swarthy complexion nodded.
“John Chaucer, the Earl of Summerset.” A beautiful man dressed in purple silk pantaloons raised a glass.
“And Sinclair Archer, the Marquess of Dunkeld.” A burly man nodded imperceptibly at her, his reddish-brown hair unfashionably long and tied back with a black ribbon at his neck.
Marcus crossed one leg over the other, and leaned back in the chair with a creak. “Summerset, I didn’t expect to see you here. When did you get back from the Continent?”
The man plucked at his shirt cuff beneath his lime green coat. “Last night. It was a hurried journey across the Channel.”
The Earl of Rothchild snorted. “One can imagine. When a man like the Marquis de Lafayette discovers he’s been cuckolded, it’s best to have a large body of water between the two of you.”
“Rothchild,” Marcus said, a note of warning in his voice. He rested his arm on the back of Liz’s chair. “Mind your language.”
“You’re wasting your breath with that one,” Summerset drawled. “If I hadn’t seen his name in Debrett’s I never would have believed Rothchild to be an earl. He is about as unrefined a peer as one could be.” He nodded at the man on his left. “Well, except for this lout here.”
Sutton rolled his eyes. Liz had to admit that the olive-skinned man with the untamed facial hair was unlike any other peer she’d ever seen.
A server stopped at the table, her long skirts swinging. “Refill on those coffees? And what can I get for you two?”
“A coffee sounds lovely, thank you.” The odor of baked pastry and roasted meat made her stomach gurgle in protest.
“And two pies,” Marcus added.
Dunkeld watched the woman’s backside as she left, an appreciative smile curling his lips, before turning back to Marcus. “What brings you here with your lovely friend?”
“A favor.” Marcus took the plates from the server’s hand and placed one in front of Liz, a mug of steaming coffee joining it. “I might need one soon.” He looked each man in the eye. “And it will be a big one.”
Sutton’s dark eyes flickered to Liz before landing back on the duke. “Does this favor come from you or from our mutual friends?”
Liz kept her hands and mouth busy eating the delicious pie, but her mind spun at the implications. Spies. They were all spies. After reading Marcus’s letter, she’d known that he was involved in the Crown’s most secret affairs. Were all lords involved in espionage for the state?
“This is from me. I have a situation that I hope to resolve through regular channels, but it might need a stronger touch.”
“A stronger touch.” Sutton smirked. “I can see that is where Dunkeld and I would come in, but I don’t think Summerset would be of much use to you. He might muss his hair.”
Summerset ran his hands over his short curls, two locks on each side of his forehead artfully coiling up towards his crown. He gave the men a pitying look. “Imbeciles. You don’t have to ignore fashion to be a real man. Besides”—he kicked one of his booted feet up on the table—“I could take down any of you brawny beasts with the judicious placement of this one heel.”
Rothchild burst out laughing and picked up his friend’s foot, lifting it high in the air and dumping Summerset backwards. “Look at the size of that heel! Are you overcompensating for some other deficiency wearing that?”
The other men hooted while Summerset struggled to reclaim his leg. He yanked it from Rothchild’s grip and slammed it down on the floor. Tugging on the lapels of his coat, he adjusted the knot of his starched white cravat. “Imbeciles,” was all he said.
“Gentlemen, can we get back to the matter at hand?” Marcus’s hand slid from the chair back to rest on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. “This favor is not something to take lightly. And I’ll understand if you want no part of it.”
Rothchild leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes on the spot the duke’s hand lay. “You know we stand with you. What do you need?”
Liz glanced around at the other customers. No one seemed to pay them particular attention, but with so many people it was hard to be sure. She leaned into Marcus. “Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more private. Anyone might hear you.”
“You’d be surprised at how many secrets are discussed within these four walls.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Sometimes it’s best to have covert discussions in plain sight.”
“Besides,” Dunkeld added, “it’s so loud in this place no one can hear what is said.”
Liz focused on the table to their left, and conceded he was right. She couldn’t hear a word of those men’s conversations.
“Liz’s sister is at Newgate,” Marcus said, getting down to it. “The man we are looking for is responsible for keeping her there.”
; “Keeping a woman trapped in that hellhole on purpose?” Rothchild asked. A muscle throbbed in his jaw. “Who’s behind it? And how is our traitor connected to your maid’s sister?”
From the raging heat of her cheeks, Liz knew her face matched the burgundy of the gown she wore. The redheaded man choked on a swallow of coffee, and the dandy rested his chin in one palm propped up on the table, as if he were watching a fascinating opera. Her stomach cramped, and she put down her fork, unable to eat another bite. Bad enough that her folly be exposed to these men. But her actions also exposed Marcus to ridicule and contempt.
He continued stroking her collarbone, his finger never skipping a beat. “Liz is no longer my maid, and that topic is no longer up for discussion. Is that clear?” A smile graced his lips, but the tone of his voice matched the granite in his eyes.
Marcus waited until each man gave a nod of acknowledgment before continuing. “Westmore is the man we’re looking for. He tried to steal the correspondence I received from France.” The men around the table cursed, except for Dunkeld, who stared into his coffee with brows drawn. “Liz and I are heading to Newgate now so I can assess her sister’s situation. If I am unable to remove her from the prison or get her a new trial”—Liz stiffened and he squeezed her shoulder—“a fair trial, then I will want to call in some favors to help remove her from Newgate.”
“A jailbreak on English soil. I’ve never done that before,” Dunkeld said, scratching his cheek.
“What about Hindu—”
“I said English, not British.” Dunkeld glared at the Baron of Sutton for a moment before breaking into a wide grin. “But that was fun. Count me in.”
“Me too.” Sutton lifted his mug in a salute.
Rothchild sighed. “Me three.”
They all waited for Summerset. He lifted his head from a spot on his sleeve he was scratching at. “Oh, I didn’t think it needed to be vocalized. But all for one or whatnot.”
Marcus shook his head. He leveled one broad palm in their direction. “Liz, meet my friends. God help me.”
