“He’s the most likely suspect. Who else has the motive?”
“Someone who has much to lose.”
“The simple truth is that Edward, Lord Wyndam, betrayed his country for a quick profit.”
Marcus gripped the stall door so tightly splinters dug into his palm. Hawkins was silent, and Marcus couldn’t help himself. He peeked around the edge of the stall. Hawkins’s back was to Marcus, so like at Gilmore’s soiree, his face remained a mystery, but the impression of a small, neat man of middle years and excessive confidence was reinforced. The other man carried himself with the air of a Corinthian, but he was a stranger to Marcus.
“You’re young. One day, you’ll learn nothing is as simple as it seems,” Hawkins said with an air of unexpected kindness. “Instead of blaming others, perhaps we should examine ourselves with more care.”
“Are you insinuating Westminster has been compromised?” the young gentleman asked.
“It’s a possibility.”
“By whom?” The man made a throaty huffing sound. “Surely you don’t suspect me? I’m honorable.”
“Every man has a price. Even the honorable ones. But no, I don’t suspect you’re our rat. This time.” The last two words were said on a whisper but with a heavy portent.
The young man mumbled something intelligible.
Hawkins continued. “If you want to be of help, look into Lord W’s most recent whereabouts.”
“Why don’t you just ask him your— Oh!” The man tugged at his collar. “I can’t fathom Lord W would… Are you certain?”
“Of course I’m not certain. This is why I employ men like you, Davies. Ask at White’s or Almack’s or even here. Discreetly, if you please, and remain on guard.”
“Yes, sir.” Davies didn’t salute, but it was clear he had his marching orders.
After Davies moved back to the house, Hawkins spun around. Marcus dropped behind the stall, holding his breath, waiting to be exposed. Hawkins muttered, “I’m seeing devils in shadows these days,” and returned to the party.
Marcus remained in the stall, absently stroking the horse’s forelock. It was apparent that Lord W didn’t refer to him, so who was he, and what had he done to earn Hawkins’s suspicions? Did “lord” denote peerage, or was it a code name? And most pertinently, was Lord W the mystery man who had killed Quinton?
Every door that opened sent him further into a maze of suspicions and suspects. A voice of doubt niggled. Was he putting himself in danger for naught? What if the book didn’t prove his father’s innocence and rather verified his guilt? And if it was in code, as Hawkins had insinuated, would he even be able to decipher it?
It was a sobering, depressing thought and one he refused to dwell on. Besides the personal vindication of his honor, he needed a good name in order to sell quality stock to the upper echelons of Society.
Another compelling reason had presented itself in stark focus over the past few days. If he wanted to properly court Delilah and marry her, he needed status and honor. Two traits he was currently lacking in Society’s eyes. She deserved that much at least.
The race was on to clear his family’s name before Delilah accepted—or was forced to accept—Sir Wallace Wainscott’s offer of marriage.
Chapter 8
Sitting along the wall of the dance floor, Delilah stifled a yawn against the back of her hand. Lady Casterly had insisted they attend Lord and Lady Danforth’s annual ball. Delilah had attempted to make an excuse, but her mother had insisted they go, especially as Sir Wallace had not graced them with a morning call. Delilah had been relieved not to have to receive him, but her mother was a knot of anxiety.
Her mother had spent the carriage ride encouraging Delilah to simper, flutter her eyes, and hang on Sir Wallace’s every word. Delilah, however, had other plans. She would nurture the awkwardness that had sprung between her and Sir Wallace. Perhaps she could even put Sir Wallace off her entirely—despite her enormous dowry. As Sir Wallace had yet to make an appearance, it seemed neither her mother’s nor Delilah’s contrary plans would be put into motion.
Delilah’s dance card was sparsely filled, which suited her fine. She had slept poorly the night before, her thoughts circling a future that was looking more and more bleak. She blamed Marcus and the kiss. Imaging such intimacy with another man set her stomach to squirming like an earthworm on a hot stone.
A footman approached holding a salver. “Miss Bancroft?”
“Yes.” She straightened.
“A note, miss.”
Taking the folded missive, Delilah waited until the footman retreated and stole a surreptitious glance around her. Her mother and Lady Casterly were some feet away in conversation with a group of matrons and paying her no mind.
The intricately folded parchment revealed a message written in a masculine hand. “Meet me in the servants’ hallway. W.”
W could be Lord Wyndam or Sir Wallace Wainscott. She refolded the note and tapped it on her chin, trying to imagine prim and proper Sir Wallace inviting her for an assignation. On the other hand, it would be just like Marcus to sneak into the ball through the servants’ entrance and bribe a footman to bring her a note.
Her conscience barely put up a fight. Of course she would meet Marcus in a hopefully deserted hallway without a chaperone. Her common sense where he was concerned approached naught. Had he discovered something important that required her help? Would he ask her to accompany him to Fieldstones?
She rose, shook out her skirts, and sidled along the edge of the crowd toward the door. Her mother and Lady Casterly hadn’t noticed her departure, and if they did, they would assume she was either on the dance floor or in the retiring room.
Linking her hands demurely around her fan, she smiled and nodded her way out of the ballroom and into the entryway. One hallway was crowded and led to the refreshments and card rooms. She swiveled her gaze toward the other hallway without yet making a move. Narrow and dim.
When she was a child, she’d learned the easiest way to sneak was not to sneak at all, but to walk purposefully toward her destination. Confidence was rarely questioned. With the lesson in mind, she strolled toward the narrow hallway, her pace even, and didn’t cast furtive glances over her shoulder no matter how she was tempted.
No one stopped her. As soon as she entered the shadows of the hallway, she slowed, taking her bearings and reassembling her nerves. A man-shaped shadow drew her attention.
“Marcus?” she whispered.
The shadow made a follow-me gesture and disappeared. She crept closer, anticipation warring with a clang of alarm.
She rounded a corner and was roughly spun around. An arm clamped her torso, and a hand covered her mouth and nose. Panic swamped her, and she grabbed at the hand over her mouth, unable to draw in a breath. The man’s grip was implacable. Her lungs grew tight and panic roared in her ears. She knew she should scream for help, but all her body could focus on was a breath. She needed air.
The man dragged her backward. Her feet scrabbled against the floor, searching for purchase to dislodge her attacker. Her efforts only tipped her weight onto him, making it easier for him to control her. She could hear nothing but her own heartbeat, banging like a fist against a door in her chest.
“Now, now, Miss Bancroft, calm yourself. I only wish to speak with you.” While his hand remained covering her mouth, it had loosened enough to allow her to breathe through her nose.
She took several deep breaths, the scent of root vegetables strong. He had dragged her into a storage room. As she calmed, another scent—musky and dangerous—cut through her senses. One that matched the icy, malevolent whisper in her ear. Quinton’s killer had laid a trap, and she’d waltzed into it like a ninny.
“I won’t hurt you. I promise.” How easily the lies tripped from his lips.
If he knew she’d witnessed Quinton’s murder, he would kill her and leave her to bleed out on the potatoes and turnips. Her only chance was to convince him she was but an innocent, ignorant debutante w
ho knew nothing of him or what he’d done. Or he might kill her no matter what she said.
“I’ll drop my hand if you swear not to scream,” he said smoothly.
“I-I promise,” she mumbled against his skin, unfortunately not needing to fake the fearful tremble in her voice.
He dropped his hand but kept her back to his front so she couldn’t see his face. “Now we can have a polite conversation.”
“This is most improper, sir. Lady Casterly will be hearing about this affront to my innocence.”
“I have no interest in ravishing you, my dear.” The humor in his voice was of the darkest variety. “You’re pretty, but not sophisticated or experienced enough for my tastes.”
A shiver skated through her at the thought of him watching her while she was unaware. “What do you want with me then?”
“I wish to return something that I believe belongs to you.” His hand pressed against her back as he rummaged through a pocket in his jacket.
“I can’t imagine what.” It was her turn to lie. She knew exactly what he would pull out. Her blasted fan.
Sure enough, he opened it and stirred the air in front of her. “Your fan, is it not?”
“I am missing no fan, sir. If you’ll kindly let me go, I’ll—” She yelped when his grip tightened around her upper arm.
“Do not lie to me.” Anger sharpened his voice. He shook her so hard her teeth clicked together.
“I-I’m not lying. I don’t know whom this fan belongs to.” She wished she were only pretending to cower. The darkness added to the menace building around her. How far away was the door? Was it locked? It wouldn’t matter unless she could free herself from his implacable grip.
His voice cooled like fire-hot iron doused. “This fan turned up in a most unusual place.”
“I can’t imagine where,” Delilah said.
“You know exactly where you left it, don’t you?”
“The ladies’ retiring room? That would be a most unusual place for a gentleman such as yourself to find a lady’s fan. What were you doing there?” She infused as much horror at his impropriety as possible into her words.
He tutted. “I’m excessively tired of games, Miss Bancroft. Either you work for Hawkins and are very good at your job. Or… you are an innocent caught up in something you don’t understand. How much did you see?”
She calculated her odds at surviving. Not promising, in whatever direction she headed. “Who is Hawkins, sir?”
“So you’re an innocent who knows nothing? We’ll see about that.” He held up the fan, its shadow muted but visible. The percussive snap of the wooden spines in his fist stole her breath as effectively as his clamping fingers had earlier. She imagined her neck under his hands. Hands that had more than a passing acquaintance with murder.
“I know nothing of who you are,” she whispered on a wisp of air.
“But you know what I did.” It wasn’t a question to be answered, so she said nothing. “I’m terribly sorry it’s come to this.”
She had played her hand wrong. She could have claimed to have left the fan in the study much earlier. Instead, by claiming total ignorance, she had signed her own death warrant. There was no time for regrets.
She could either stand here while he led her off a cliff’s edge like a sheep or take action. Shifting, she reached out with her foot and bumped a sack piled high with some sort of vegetable.
“What is your plan? To strangle me and leave me here? Or stab me through the heart like Quinton? Think of the mess and the fuss my family will make.” Her bravado was merely to keep him talking and buy her time.
“And here I heard you were a missish lady.”
“You were misinformed.” Her only option was to go on the offensive. A flood of cold steadied her nerves. She had survived a night in the bogs when she could have given up. She would survive this man.
“I know old Wyndam’s son has been sniffing around you. And I know your parents don’t approve. It would be understandable if a traitor’s son lost his temper and murdered the lady he was denied. An age-old tale. And one that would dispose of two headaches for me.”
Damn and blast, with the rumors circulating already, the lie would catch like wildfire, and Marcus would be in Newgate by dawn.
Unless she acted. His arm around her torso loosened, and his hands shifted toward her neck, leaving her momentarily free. She struck. Quick as an adder, she lunged forward, grabbed whatever was in the closest sack, and threw it behind her at the man’s face. He grunted, his balance upset.
She screamed like a banshee and grabbed what turned out to be turnips, turning with the throw and knocking him square in the chest. She lobbed another, but having lost the element of surprise, the vegetables did little to slow his pursuit. He caught her wrists in a grasp that might as well have been manacles, tight and unescapable. He transferred her wrists to one hand as he grappled for something in his boot. A knife?
The meager light didn’t reveal the details of his face, but she could make out a strong jaw, the blade of a nose, and light-colored hair.
“Be still, you hellion.” His voice had lost a portion of its austere control and took on a new feeling of discomfiture.
“Never, you… you…” Her mind blanked on an appropriate insult, so instead she did what Alastair had taught her to do if accosted. She butted her head up against his chin and lifted her knee to jab him between his legs.
His teeth clacked together, and he groaned, shifting his hands to where she’d kneed him. Stumbling over the stores of food, she made for the door, yanked it open, and ran into the hallway. She glanced over her shoulder, fearing the man was inches away from grabbing her and dragging her back into the darkness.
As she rounded the corner, she bumped into a hard, warm body. How had he circled around her? A yelping scream escaped her, and she backpeddled, bumping into the wall.
“Where have you been?” Marcus’s voice bordered on frantic, and it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard.
She launched herself at him, winding her arms around his neck like a clinging vine. He held her, his solidness a port in the chaos. She buried her face between his cravat and hair and took a deep breath, her numb lips against warm skin. His scent was rain and hay and summer wind. She tightened her hold.
Music wound its way to them. Marcus led her into the shadows of a shallow alcove at the edge of the servants’ hallway. “Are you injured?”
“No. I’m well.” Or at least she would be.
“What happened?”
“I received a note. I assumed it was from you.”
“What did it say?” Marcus asked.
She fished the note out of her reticule and handed it to him. He stared at it and murmured, “W.”
“For Wyndam, I assumed. Who else?”
“A man called Lord W, I presume, and Quinton’s killer.” He didn’t wait for the questions forming sluggishly in her head to emerge. “I overheard Hawkins and an underling speak of a Lord W in connection with Quinton’s murder. Could it have been him?”
“Yes, it was him, although he didn’t introduce himself.”
Fury rampaged across his face as he pulled away and took a step back toward the narrow hallway. “I need to—”
“No. Don’t leave me.” She held him fast, unable to bear being left alone and vulnerable to another attack. “He knew I witnessed Quinton’s murder.”
“How the devil did he know that?”
“I neglected to tell you something about the night in the study. Something I only remembered later that tied me to the scene,” she said with reluctance.
“What?” He searched her face, strain and worry tightening his expression.
“I left my dance fan on the settee before I hid behind the draperies. He found it. I never dreamed he could tie the fan back to me.”
Marcus briefly closed his eyes. “It would take but a few subtle questions to reveal you as the fan’s owner and possible witness to his crime. I wish you had confided in me.
”
“I didn’t remember at first, and when I did, I felt like a fool. Anyway, what could you have done?”
“I would have dogged your heels to protect you. Damn your mother and Lady Casterly’s poor opinion of me.”
She found a smile, although it trembled around the edges. “How did you find me tonight?”
“Luck and persistence. I regretted our last parting and bribed your cook to tell me which ball you were attending. After searching the ballroom and the gardens without any sign of you, I was beginning to panic.” He shrugged. “Honestly, I was standing here at a loss when you bumped into me.”
Delilah looked down the dark hallway. Might-have-beens stacked terror upon terror in her imagination. If things had gone differently, she could now be lying in the deserted store room strangled or stabbed to death. The shivers passing through her weren’t from cold; nevertheless, Marcus drew her close and stroked her hair as one might comfort a child or a favorite pet.
“It was a near thing, Marcus. He was ready to strangle me and pin the murder on you.” She took a deep breath of his unique scent and latched herself even closer to him. “He assumed I was docile and weak and wouldn’t fight him.”
A slight rumble in his chest helped abate a portion of her anxiety. “He was sorely mistaken.”
Somewhere, somehow, she found a small smile. “I threw a turnip at his head.”
“A spy and murderer done in by a turnip-wielding debutante. I wish I had been there.”
“Me too.” Her smile turned into a little sob.
A madman was on the loose and wanted her silenced. The only way to accomplish that was to kill her. She wasn’t naive enough to think he would give up now.
“What am I to do?” Her words emerged on the hitch of her tears.
He cupped her face and tilted it to his. “You mean what are we to do?”
A SINFUL SURRENDER: Spies and Lovers Page 10
