by Darcy Burke
Marcus waited, listening quietly for any sign of movement. At last, there were footsteps, followed by the door creaking open. Drobbit ran a hand through his disheveled hair, further messing it.
“How the hell did you find me?”
Marcus pushed open the door, forcing Drobbit to step back, though he kept a grip on the wood. “It took quite some time. Clearly, you didn’t wish to be found.” He took a quick appraisal of the room. It was small and spartanly furnished, with a narrow bed in the corner and a decrepit seating area in front of a cold hearth.
“No, I did not,” Drobbit snapped as he closed the door. “Shouldn’t you be at a bawdy house by this time of night?”
Marcus turned. “Don’t pretend to know me.”
“How could I?” Drobbit grumbled. “Your father made certain you didn’t associate with our side of the family.” He tossed Marcus a glare as he went to a small table set beneath a window and poured a glass of brandy.
That was only a partial truth. Marcus’s mother had married above her station when she’d wed a marquess, but she’d remained devoted to her family. However, her sister and her husband, Drobbit’s parents, had been rife with jealousy and anger over Marcus’s mother’s good fortune. This had culminated in a physical altercation between Marcus’s uncle and father.
“After your father attacked him. And it was my mother who asked not to associate with her sister and her husband anymore,” Marcus clarified. Perhaps Drobbit hadn’t known that.
Drobbit sipped his drink as he continued to glower at Marcus. “Believe the lies your father told you. I’m certain you wouldn’t remember anything Aunt Helena said.”
Because Marcus had been just four when his mother, Helena, died. He summoned a patronizing smile. “On the contrary, I remember many things, but nothing concerning you or your family, likely because it wasn’t important. And yes, I believe my father, just as you, apparently, believe yours. I didn’t come here to solve the divisions of those who came before us. I came to put a stop to your criminal behavior.”
Drobbit grunted before draining his glass. He clacked it down on the sideboard. “You’re as bloody cold as your father was—maybe even worse. You can’t prove anything.”
“I can, actually. You’re actively trying to swindle someone right now, and I’m confident he’ll provide evidence against you and Osborne. Where is he, by the way? Weren’t you expecting him?” Marcus looked around the room, but there was nowhere to hide.
The sound of Drobbit’s teeth grinding irritated Marcus. “I’m not swindling anyone. I invest for people.”
“Invest in what?” When Drobbit didn’t answer, Marcus made a noise in his throat. “Don’t bother lying to me. I told you in the park to stop cheating people. You ignored me, and now you’ll reap what you sowed. Bow Street will be here as soon as I tell them.”
Lines creased across Drobbit’s wide forehead. “Don’t do that. Please.”
Marcus walked around the room and took inventory. “You stole a great deal of money from people. Surely you should pay for that.” He sent Drobbit a taunting glance. “What did you do with all of it?”
“Nothing, because I didn’t steal it,” Drobbit barked. “I lost it in an investment.”
“Unlikely. You must have it hidden somewhere—I know you like to live extravagantly.” He spun around and cocked his head to the side. “Or did, anyway. Did you really spend it all?”
Drobbit raised his arms and his voice. “Look around you! Where is my cache of riches? I have nothing.”
Marcus strode toward him, his patience thinning. He stopped a bare foot from the smaller man. He didn’t bother modulating his tone. “Don’t waste both our time by pretending you’re guiltless. In addition to Lennox, whom you are currently swindling, Halstead has proof. If you think a duke and a marquess—because I will help him—can’t take you down, you’re living in a fantasy.” He fixed his gaze on Drobbit’s, staring intently into the man’s withering soul. “You will return whatever money you can, and you will provide me a list of those you cheated. I want the latter now.”
“I—I can’t. There really isn’t any money. I’ve spent it all.” His voice, once filling the room with its volume, dwindled to nearly nothing. He turned his head, and for the first time, Marcus saw the resemblance between his cousin and his mother—or at least the small portrait of his mother that his father had kept in his private library. The shape of her nose was the shape of Drobbit’s nose. Right now, looking at his cousin, Marcus saw her. The scent of roses and tea with sugar rose from the distant past.
Marcus swore. His voice rose. “You nearly bankrupted people. Indeed, you probably did. Tell me who else you fleeced.”
“Does it matter? They won’t want their shame known, and there’s nothing to be done now. What money I have must repay a debt.” He flicked a fear-filled glance at Marcus.
Bloody hell. Marcus recalled what Harry had told him about Drobbit being involved with something dubious. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
“The less you know, the better off you’ll be.” Drobbit turned back to the table and poured another glass of brandy. The liquid only filled half the glass, however, because the bottle was empty.
Marcus retreated to the center of the room. “I can’t imagine you’ve developed a sudden concern for my welfare, particularly after you tried to break my head open.”
“We’re family in the end, aren’t we?”
They were, but Marcus didn’t have sympathy to spare. Not for him. “If you tell me from whom you stole, I’ll do my best to ensure you aren’t punished too harshly.”
“I’ll give you a list—tomorrow. My head is pounding.”
“You’ve proven yourself to be thoroughly untrustworthy. Bow Street is around the corner. I should go fetch them now.”
Sweat beaded Drobbit’s forehead. “Please don’t. I promise I’ll come to your house in the morning.” He turned and went to a dresser near the bed. Opening a drawer, he withdrew a small pouch, then came back to Marcus. “Here. This was my mother’s. I swear on her grave I’ll come to your house in the morning.”
Marcus opened the drawstring and emptied the contents into his palm. A necklace spilled out, and he recognized it immediately. It was a cameo carved in carnelian. “This is my mother,” Marcus said, skimming his fingertip over the raised profile.
“Yes. Do you have the one with my mother?” Drobbit asked. Their parents had given them cameos of each other when they were young.
“I do.” Marcus recalled that she wore it, even after she was estranged from her sister. He remembered sitting on her lap and tracing the silhouette, just as he was doing now.
He shouldn’t trust this man. Looking up from the cameo, he pinned Drobbit with an earnest stare. “You swear you’ll be at my house in the morning? I still intend to take you to Bow Street. These crimes cannot go unpunished. The upside is that whatever situation you’ve become involved in will no longer be a problem. I’m sure Bow Street would be quite happy to pursue whatever criminals have forced you to take such drastic measures.”
“Thank you. Truly.” Drobbit seemed to wilt before him. “I don’t want to go on like this. We are family after all.”
“Family who throw rocks at each other,” Marcus murmured, the lingering memory of his mother floating about his head. This swindler was his family—they shared the blood that had flowed through Marcus’s mother’s veins. Drobbit was, in fact, the only link he had left to her. And it was a link he’d never thought much about. Maybe if he had, the man wouldn’t have turned to crime. Marcus wasn’t to blame for the man’s transgressions, but perhaps he could now set him on the right path.
Drobbit turned toward him, his shoulders relaxing, but his jaw remaining taut. “Why do you want a list anyway?”
“Reparations must be made.”
“But I told you I have no money.”
Marcus, however, did. He had more than he could ever spend, and while he couldn’t return everything Drobbit had stolen, h
e could at least ensure no one was destitute. He’d already done that for his friend, Graham, and he’d do it for whoever else needed the help.
Pocketing the cameo, Marcus turned to go.
“May I have hers?” Drobbit asked as Marcus reached the door. “The cameo with my mother on it?”
Marcus looked back over his shoulder. “Of course. I’ll give it to you in the morning—incentive to come.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
Closing the door behind him, Marcus made his way downstairs and out of the tavern. He paused outside and glanced up, worried that Drobbit would disappear before morning. He realized a part of him didn’t care, so long as he stopped swindling people.
Marcus made his way to his coach where it waited in Covent Garden. He worked to put the distasteful evening from his mind. Phoebe awaited him, and he looked forward to losing himself in her.
He didn’t want to think of Drobbit. Of Bow Street. Of Phoebe’s father. Or especially of the way he’d just capitulated to sentimentality.
Chapter 13
Phoebe wrapped her dressing gown around herself as she watched Marcus dress. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, which meant he was a bit late leaving. Not that she cared—his tardiness was worth every moment they’d spent causing it.
Her body was still flushed from pleasure, and she knew she’d spend the day in a semigiddy state, much as she’d done the day before. Affairs, she decided, were excellent for one’s well-being.
Marcus was completely dressed save his cravat and boots. As he sat down to don the latter, he asked if she might know where the former had ended up.
Phoebe thought back to the night before when he’d arrived. She’d insisted on stripping every piece of clothing from his body. “You threatened to blindfold me with it.” Only it hadn’t felt threatening. The suggestion had aroused her, and she looked forward to when he would. “Remember, you promised to do that next time.” Discussing “next time” had become one of her favorite pastimes.
She knelt down and saw the cravat under the bed. Bending forward, she reached for the length of silk.
Marcus caressed her backside. “This is an excellent view. I think next time might also need to include shagging you from behind. Or perhaps that will be the time after.”
Desire sparked in Phoebe’s core as she sat back with the cravat in her hand. Marcus gave her his hand and helped her up. He tugged her gently against his chest.
“Tell me more,” Phoebe said huskily as she wrapped the cravat around his neck and held onto the ends, pulling his head down to hers.
“You on all fours. Me behind you. My cock in your pussy, and my mouth on the back of your neck while you scream my name.”
Heat flooded Phoebe’s sex. She loved the way he talked to her when they were alone. “Can next time be now?”
He chuckled. “You’re insatiable.” Then he kissed her, a long, delicious exploration of her mouth that only stoked her lust.
Stepping back, he grinned as he took hold of the cravat and began to tie it.
“And you’re provoking.”
“No more than you.” His gaze dipped over her. “Prancing around in almost nothing and putting your arse in the air.”
She turned and wiggled her backside, drawing a laugh from him.
A rap on her door startled them both. Phoebe’s maid knew she had a guest—it had been necessary to instruct her to stay away.
Phoebe went to the door, where a visibly concerned Page stood. “I’m so sorry to bother you, miss, but I’m afraid there’s someone here.”
“At this hour?” Phoebe asked, aware that Marcus, who was standing out of Page’s view, had taken a step toward them.
Page nodded. “It’s a Bow Street Runner.” She sounded petrified.
“Thank you, Page. I’ll be right down.”
Before Phoebe could close the door, Page said, “He’s not here to see you. He’s here to see him. Lord Ripley.”
Phoebe’s stomach dropped to the basement. She gripped the door tightly. “I see. We’ll be right down, then.”
“Do you want me to help you dress?” Page asked.
“No, thank you.” Phoebe closed the door and stared at Marcus. “How does he know you’re here? Why is he looking for you in the first place?”
Marcus frowned. “It might be about my cousin. I’d asked a friend of mine who’s a Runner to find him.”
“But you found him.”
“Yes, however, I didn’t tell him to stop looking. I came here straight after seeing Drobbit last night.”
“The Runner must have found him, then.”
“He must have.” Marcus exhaled. “Do you want to dress? He can wait a few minutes.”
“I suppose.”
With Marcus’s assistance, she donned a simple day dress and pulled her hair up into a simple style. They were downstairs a short time later and walked together into the garden room, where the Runner was waiting.
“I’m surprised to see you here and at this hour,” Marcus said. “Phoebe, allow me to present my friend, Harry Sheffield. Harry, this is Miss Phoebe Lennox.”
Sheffield, a thick-chested man with auburn hair and piercing tawny eyes, bowed. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Lennox. Please forgive my intrusion at this impolite hour.”
“I’m sure your reason for coming is important,” Phoebe said. “Shall we sit?”
“That’s not necessary. I’m afraid I’ve come with bad news.” He looked to Marcus. “Your cousin was found dead a couple of hours ago.”
Though Phoebe wasn’t touching Marcus, he was close enough to her side that she felt him tense.
“How did he die?” Marcus’s voice was calm. Unemotional.
“He was shot—square in the chest.”
“Where did this happen?”
“At the Horn Tavern.” Sheffield frowned briefly. “I believe you know where that is.”
Something passed between the two men, an unspoken communication. Of course Marcus knew where that was—he’d been there last night. Phoebe began to grow alarmed.
Marcus inclined his head. “I do.”
“You were there last night,” Sheffield said. It wasn’t a question. He knew Marcus had been there. “You saw him.”
Phoebe’s heart pounded as apprehension coiled inside her. She didn’t like the look in Sheffield’s gaze—it was rife with doubt and suspicion.
“I did, and he was alive when I left.” Marcus’s voice was still remarkably calm, as was his expression. He looked as if they were discussing the day’s weather!
“What time was that?” Sheffield asked.
“Between eleven and midnight.”
Sheffield nodded. “You didn’t tell me you’d found him.”
“I’d planned to today. It was rather late last night.”
“And yet, the Horn is not that far from Bow Street.”
Marcus smiled, but it lacked his usual charm. “As you can see, I had a far more desirable engagement.”
Sheffield sent a half smile in Phoebe’s direction, then looked back to Marcus. “Was Drobbit alone?”
“Yes. He was also a bit drunk.”
“Did you see anyone around his room? Anything that would draw notice or suspicion?”
Marcus shook his head. “No, the floor was empty. I didn’t see anyone on my way up nor on my way down.”
“Did anyone see you leave?”
Marcus shrugged. “I can’t say. I didn’t speak to anyone on my way out.”
Sheffield went silent, and Phoebe could have sworn she could hear his mind turning. She wanted to blurt that Marcus couldn’t have killed Drobbit. He wouldn’t have.
“You should go home,” Sheffield said.
“As it happens, I am on my way there now.”
“Good. Stay there. I’ll be by later to ask you a few more questions.”
Marcus gave him a nod. “You’re welcome anytime.” He sounded so smooth, so collected, while Phoebe wanted to scream.
> Sheffield left, and Phoebe grabbed Marcus’s hand, squeezing as she turned to him. Marcus shook his head sharply and lifted his finger to his mouth. He let go of her hand and went to the door where he stood, listening.
Phoebe also listened, and when the front door closed, Marcus visibly relaxed. He also swore violently.
Then he shot her a look of apology.
“He was alive when you left,” Phoebe said.
“Yes.” Marcus pulled something from his pocket and looked down at it in his palm. “He gave me this.”
Phoebe went to him and saw the cameo resting in his grasp. “It’s beautiful. Why did he give it to you?”
“This is my mother. It belonged to his mother. I have one of her that belonged to my mother. I was going to give it to him this morning when he came to my house.” Marcus had told her of their conversation last night, that Drobbit’s swindling was finished, but he hadn’t mentioned the cameos.
She touched his arm, moving close to him. “I’m so sorry.”
He inhaled sharply. “I’m not sad. How can I be when I scarcely knew him?”
“Wasn’t he your only family?”
“Yes, but he may as well have been anyone.” His voice was oddly cold, and it made her shiver. He sounded nothing like the ardent lover who came to her bed.
They were quiet a moment, then he turned to face her. “My butler must have told him where I was.”
“Your retainers know you’ve been spending the night here?”
“Just my butler and my valet. They are incredibly discreet. Like your maid.” He frowned, then took her hand. “I need to go home, and we can’t see each other for a few days. I will be at the center of gossip, more than usual,” he said with a grin that did nothing to ease the turmoil wreaking havoc inside Phoebe. “We mustn’t do anything to draw attention.”
Gossip. It would be terrible. Speaking of gossip… “You fought with Drobbit in the park. Worse than that, people say you threatened to kill him. Now they’ll say you did.”
“If anyone even knows he’s dead. It’s not as if Drobbit was a known member of Society.”
