A SINFUL SURRENDER: Spies and Lovers

by Laura Trentham

  Sir Wallace cleared his throat. Delilah’s gaze flew from Sir Wallace’s string-bean leg to meet his knowing smirk. Lord help her, the man thought she was admiring his form.

  Sir Wallace’s long, thin—one might even say skeletal—fingers brushed his cravat. A shudder coursed through her, imagining him touching her the way Marcus had. “I was distressed to miss our waltz last evening, Miss Bancroft.”

  “We don’t always get what we want, do we?” Her tongue had been marinated in lemon juice and infused her words with a tart sass most unlike her. Or, more accurately, most unlike the young woman she’d been these past two years and much more like the old her.

  Her mother’s eyes were huge as they swung from Delilah to Sir Wallace and back again to stare pointedly at Delilah. Her mother tittered. “It was quite the crush at Harrington’s. It’s no wonder Delilah got overheated and had to depart early.”

  “I noticed you conversing with Lord Nash last night. Were the two of you school chums?” Even though Delilah’s lips were turned up in a smile, no resulting good humor filled her.

  “Indeed, we were. Same class at Eton.” Sir Wallace tucked both feet closer together and shifted on the cushion.

  “We’ve never been properly introduced. Perhaps you could do the honors?” Delilah tread on perilous ground.

  Bringing up, however obliquely, the conversation she’d overheard could place her close to the scene of the murder if the events of the evening came to light, but she needn’t worry. Sir Wallace’s total confusion verified his status as rather dim as well as whiney.

  “Nash will be delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  This time she didn’t bother to muffle her incredulous snort.

  Kirby rapped twice and entered the drawing room. “Earl Wyndam requests an audience, ma’am. He has no calling card.”

  “An earl?” Her mother popped up, her hand stealing around her neck. She turned to Delilah. “You neglected to tell me you made the acquaintance of an earl last night, my dear.”

  “That’s because I didn’t. He must be here to see Father on business.”

  Her mother nodded to Kirby. “We’ll receive him.”

  “Lord Wyndam, ma’am.” Kirby made the announcement and bowed his way out of the room.

  The man Delilah knew as Marcus Ashemore paused in the doorway. Every nerve in her body vibrated. Even her hair felt alive. His secretive, teasing half smile hit her like an arrow through the heart. Unaware of even moving, she found herself within touching distance of him.

  Marcus was dressed in serviceable buckskin breeches, boots, and the navy frock coat she’d seen in his wardrobe the night before. His cravat wouldn’t have passed muster with Brummel, but the peek of tanned skin at his neck was masculine and attractive.

  He took her hand and skimmed his lips over the back. His forefinger brushed the pulse point of her wrist. If it was any reflection of the way her heart beat at her ribs, he would see through any ruse of calm she attempted.

  “Marcus Ashemore, Lord Wyndam at your service, Miss Bancroft.”

  “You are the late Lord Wyndam’s son?” Sir Wallace sat up straighter, looking like he’d smelled something distasteful but was too polite to mention it.

  Marcus’s face shuttered as if preparing for a storm, and his hand, still gripping hers, tightened. “Obviously.”

  Delilah caught her mother’s hard stare and pulled her hand from Marcus’s—Lord Wyndam’s—grip. Surprised her legs could still carry her, Delilah returned to sit on the edge of the settee cushion.

  “The earldom passed to you.” Sir Wallace’s tone reflected his surprise.

  “I’m his only son. His heir. Why wouldn’t it pass to me?”

  “I would have thought it impossible, considering…” Sir Wallace made a sweeping gesture.

  Marcus shuffled his feet wider, his shoulders straining the seams of his well-worn jacket. “Be very careful with your next words, Wainscott.”

  Although he was the same man from the night before, next to Sir Wallace’s prancing, effeminate nature, Marcus’s edge of danger and raw masculinity was enhanced a hundredfold. He was nothing like the men who claimed her for dances, brought her lemonade, or remarked on the weather at the gatherings she attended.

  Trapped in the somber blandness of their drawing room, Marcus exuded a potent energy that threatened to upend everything. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Not because she was fearful but because she was fascinated, which was even more dangerous.

  When Sir Wallace said nothing, Marcus took a step closer to him. “My father was never accused of any wrongdoing.”

  Not sensing the possible peril to his person, Sir Wallace picked a piece of lint off his sleeve and said, “Not formally perhaps, but—” He shot a glance at Delilah and her mother, then winked and tapped the side of his nose. A nose Marcus looked ready to break.

  “Lord Wyndam is inordinately fascinated with botany, and I promised to show him our garden. If you’ll excuse us?” Delilah smiled at Sir Wallace and her mother.

  Her mother’s mouth opened and closed, but she didn’t voice an objection, and in the moment, Delilah wasn’t sure she would have heeded one. She rose and hastened to the drawing room door, sending a glance over her shoulder. “This way, Lord Wyndam.”

  The menace on his face had been replaced by a familiar spark of humor. “I am eager to acquaint myself with your bushes, Miss Bancroft.”

  “Delilah, stay within sight, if you please.” Her mother had regained her voice, adding a dose of sternness.

  “Of course, Mother.” Delilah took the arm Marcus offered, and they strolled to the garden door, not speaking again until they were outside. She dropped his arm and any pretense as soon as they were alone.

  “An earl?” She propped her hands on her hips. “Why didn’t you tell me that last night?”

  “You didn’t ask, and honestly, I’m not used to using the title.”

  “Why on earth did you enter the library through the window and not as a guest?”

  “Unfortunately, Wainscott is somewhat correct. The Wyndam name is tarnished, hence the reason for my interest in the book. My father was a good man, and I intend to prove it.”

  “I skimmed Father’s newspaper but saw no mention of last night’s incident. Have you heard anything?” Delilah took a step closer to him and lowered her voice even though no one was within earshot.

  “Not a peep.” Marcus sounded more worried than relieved.

  “What does it signify?”

  “It means someone in power has hushed it up. Hawkins, most likely.”

  Delilah plucked a leaf and stripped it to its veins. “I can’t help but wonder if Mr. Quinton has a family missing him.”

  “My thoughts have dwelt on the possibility as well.” Birdcalls and the rattle of carriages from the street broke the lengthy silence. “I’ve tasked O’Connell to search for any crumb of information.”

  “I suppose it’s over then.” The finality should have calmed her nerves, but she was still on edge. Delilah turned back toward the house, but Marcus caught her hand.

  “It’s not over for me. Have you remembered anything else that might help my quest?” His desperation was palpable and spread to her like a contagion. No, it bound them like iron forged by the trial they’d endured together.

  She closed her eyes and hugged herself around the waist, putting herself back behind the curtain in her mind. She reviewed the events once more for Marcus, but nothing new came to mind.

  “I don’t. I’m sorry,” she said in a thickened voice, the slug of emotion taking her by surprise. Tears clouded her eyes, and she wasn’t sure why. Whatever nerve had held her together through discovering the body and fleeing into the night with a stranger had frayed. Who would cry for the dead man if not her?

  Marcus’s face was blurry with her tears, but his hands were firm on her shoulders, a grounding force. Warmth infused her. “You’ve been so strong, Delilah. Any woman—any man, for that matter—would be forgiven for fal
ling apart. I wish…”

  “What do you wish?”

  “I wish I could take you in my arms and comfort you. I wish we hadn’t met over a dead body. I wish I could claim a waltz in front of all polite Society.” He touched her cheek lightly.

  She wished she could nuzzle her cheek into his palm and step into the hard, comforting warmth of his body, but she was aware of her mother’s promise—threat?—to keep them under her watchful gaze.

  Delilah took a step away from him and sniffed. Marcus produced a soft handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. It smelled of fresh sunshine and country air. When she tried to hand it back, the corner of his mouth quirked up. “Keep it. Save your tears for later. If your mother and Wainscott think I made you cry, I won’t be allowed inside the front door next time.”

  She blinked, her thoughts a chaotic whirl. “You plan to call again?”

  “You’re the only one who can identify the killer.”

  “But I didn’t see his face.”

  “Last night you thought you might recognize him. If he was at Lord Harrington’s, then he is part of Society and will eventually show himself.”

  “What will you do if I actually manage to locate him?”

  “Doesn’t Quinton deserve justice?” His nonanswer didn’t go unnoticed.

  “Why not go straight to Hawkins? At least we know he hasn’t killed anyone.”

  “Based on his reputation, I wouldn’t be too confident about that,” Marcus said darkly.

  “You’re sure whatever is in the book can clear your father’s name?”

  His hesitation was answer enough. “That’s what I hope, yes.”

  She daubed her bottom lip with her tongue and asked softly, “What if it doesn’t?”

  “Then I’ll keep hunting for information that does.”

  She recognized the futility in arguing about his father’s honor. “If I see the man in the hat, I’ll send word.”

  “I would be most appreciative.” He paced in front of a rose bush whose buds were beginning to form. Picking one, he twirled it between his thumb and forefinger.

  She had never been around a man so at ease with his body. He’d swung himself out of the window to traverse the ledge and descend the water pipe as if such things were natural.

  The gentlemen she’d met at the balls and soirees moved with stiff formality, even when dancing. How would it feel to be waltzed around the dance floor in Marcus’s arms? How would it feel to kiss him? A blush heated her face and made her long for a fan or a cool breeze, but neither was on hand. Her missing fan popped into her mind. Should she tell Marcus?

  “They mentioned another man,” he said.

  The direction of her thoughts veered. “Who? When?”

  “Lord Harrington and his companion when we were lying on the ground under the bush outside the window.” His gaze remained on the flower in his hand. “Gilmore. I did some digging and discovered he’s a lord and circulates among the ton regularly. Are you acquainted with him?”

  “Only by reputation, which is said to be dissolute.”

  “Harrington insinuated he needs protection. We can only assume from the killer, which means he might know or be in possession of something useful.”

  “Was he a friend of your father’s as well?”

  “Not that I’m aware, but there is much I don’t know about my father’s personal and business dealings.”

  “Does Gilmore work for or against England?” she asked, not expecting an answer.

  “Either way, I would wager my horse on the possibility either the killer or Hawkins will send someone for Gilmore. And if the killer gets there first…” Marcus shook his head.

  “Lord Gilmore is hosting a soiree in a week’s time. It seems a good opportunity to search.”

  Marcus stopped and stared. “You received an invitation?”

  “Yes, but Mother is set to decline.”

  “You must change her mind.”

  She huffed and rolled her eyes. “You don’t know Mother.”

  He took her hand in both of his and squeezed. “Please, Delilah.”

  The air around them snapped with the energy of a great storm on the horizon. She welcomed the chaos.

  If her mother had an inkling of what Delilah had witnessed and what Marcus was asking of her, she would lock Delilah in a nunnery to keep her hidden and safe—or marry her to Sir Wallace by special license that very afternoon.

  Yet Delilah would take the risk. From the moment Marcus had appeared in their drawing room, she knew she would do whatever it took to obtain justice for Quinton’s murder and help Marcus clear his family name.

  “I’ll ensure we attend Gilmore’s soiree,” she said.

  “I’ll finagle an invitation. Or make my way inside somehow.” Marcus glanced toward the house. “Is Wainscott a serious suitor?”

  “Mother believes he’s ready to come up to scratch.” She dropped her gaze and bit the inside of her lip. The overheard conversation between Sir Wallace and Lord Nash ached like a bruise to her heart.

  “Two minutes in his company and it’s clear he’s a dunderhead. You’ll surely decline.” At her silence, his voice harshened. “Won’t you?”

  Her breath caught at the intensity reflecting in his green eyes. “Mother and Father are encouraging the match. An advantageous marriage would give my family a foothold into polite Society and widen my father’s business contacts. Father is a merchant who only recently came into a fortune.”

  “Is he the one?” Marcus’s shoulders bowed up, and he pointed toward the drawing room.

  “The one what?”

  “The man who hurt your feelings last night.” Marcus’s hands were balled into fists, and color burnished his tanned cheeks. He fairly vibrated with murderous intent, which she was more of an expert on recognizing than she had been the day before.

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’ll teach him a lesson he won’t soon forget.”

  She gripped Marcus’s biceps. It was hard as stone. “Considering everything that’s happened since, he’s not worth adding to our troubles.”

  He relaxed a fraction. “You plan to refuse him.”

  She dropped her hand from his arm. “Mother caught me returning last night.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She informed me I need to be taken in hand by a husband as soon as possible.”

  “Your mother plans to wed you to Sir Wallace to avoid scandal and climb higher in Society.” At her brusque nod, he asked, “What do you want?”

  Not even her mother had asked her what she wanted. “What I want doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it does. It’s your future in the balance.”

  How could men be so ignorant to women’s plight in the world? “Are you mad? My reputation and dowry are my only possessions of value. My dreams and ambitions are worthless. Even worse, they’re a hindrance. I must keep my reputation pristine, hand over my dowry to my husband, and provide heirs like a broodmare. It’s all I’m good for, and it’s bloody well not fair.”

  Speaking her mind for the first time in two years left her dizzy and breathless. A wound had been excised and drained of rot. While her body had healed long ago, her soul had remained in convalescence, but finally, strength rushed through her in full measure.

  Politeness dictated she should immediately apologize for her outburst, including the profanity she’d overheard Alastair use on many an occasion. Instead, she raised her chin and glared at him because she wasn’t sorry.

  If she had to quantify the emotion flashing in Marcus’s green eyes, it wasn’t disdain, but something akin to admiration. “I agree. It’s bloody well not fair a woman such as yourself is reduced to a tally sheet.”

  The understanding radiating off him reminded her painfully of Alastair. Her brother had encouraged her and even joined in her explorations before his interests had veered toward village girls, gaming, and war.

  Unable to control herself, she leaned closer to Marcus, close enough
to catch his scent—the earthiness of the countryside and the pleasant tang of his shaving cream. The same scent had enveloped her the previous evening when he’d rolled his lean body on top of hers under the cover of the bush and again in the street.

  He raised his hand, and for a few skipping heartbeats, she froze, sure he was going to touch her. Instead, he cleared his throat, took two giant steps backward, and smoothed a hand down the lapel of his jacket.

  “Your mother and Wainscott watch us,” he murmured.

  Delilah stole a glance toward the window. Sir Wallace peeked around the curtain, but her mother felt no such compunction. Her thunderous face was framed by the dark curtains like a portrait of a Shakespearean fury.

  “I wonder what poison Sir Wallace is feeding my mother,” Delilah said.

  “Wainscott is only repeating what is on everyone else’s lips.” The hurt in his voice spread like an indelible stain, the kind she feared would never be truly clean no matter what he discovered in the infamous book he sought. “We should return.”

  They strolled side by side out of the garden. At the drawing room door, out of sight from both her mother and Sir Wallace, he caught her forearm, the calluses along his fingers finding the bare skin at the edge of her sleeve. It was not the touch of a gentleman’s hand, but she didn’t pull away. A shiver crawled up her arm to stir the hair at her nape.

  “I’ll see you at Gilmore’s,” he murmured. Although it wasn’t a question, he waited for her answer.

  “I’ll be there.” Even if she had no idea how to change her mother’s mind.

  Her mother stared at them from where she stood in the middle of the drawing room. Marcus smiled gamely and raised his voice. “I’ll take my leave. Thank you for the tour of the gardens, Miss Bancroft.”

  “You’re most welcome, Mar— Lord Wyndam. Good day to you.”

  Marcus shifted his grip to her hand and brushed his lips across the back. His index finger stroked over her palm and ignited a path of heat like flint. It was over before Delilah could react, and he disappeared out the door without a backward glance.