by Darcy Burke
A fight? On Monday… That night was emblazoned in her mind forever, because it was the first night she and Marcus had lain together. Marcus had also been bleeding—supposedly from hitting his head on the hack. “Do you know whom he fought with?” Phoebe asked.
Meg returned and dropped the garment over Phoebe’s head before tying it in place. “Mr. Sainsbury didn’t say, but I do recall him muttering the name Ripley several times. He seemed quite angry when he did so. Perhaps that’s who he fought?”
Of course it was—Phoebe had absolutely no doubt. Her heart tripped, and she sucked in a breath. Why hadn’t Marcus told her he’d fought with Sainsbury? What had happened to provoke the conflict? She’d told him what Sainsbury had done… Had Marcus started a fight with him? Worse, had they fought a duel?
No, that couldn’t have happened. Sainsbury would likely be dead. She’d heard that Marcus was an excellent shot—it was part of his scandalous reputation.
She longed to ask Marcus about their fight, but how could she do that now? Her anger at him resurfaced. Oh, he was a frustrating man!
Calming her emotions while Meg fastened her into a gown, Phoebe focused on the problem at hand: Sainsbury and the gunpowder on his clothing. Something about that tugged at her thoughts, and it wasn’t because she thought he and Marcus had somehow fought a duel from which they’d both escaped unscathed. Unless Sainsbury had been wounded? “When Sainsbury came home with gunpowder on his clothing, was he hurt?”
Meg shook her head. “Not at all. In fact, he was in a rather cheerful mood. It was very strange. Whatever happened, he was quite pleased about it. We determined he must have won the duel.”
Phoebe’s blood went cold. Had he—? No, it couldn’t be possible. And yet she was fixated on the possibility that Sainsbury had killed Marcus’s cousin. But why would he do that?
To make it look as though Marcus had done it.
She wasn’t sure she believed that. Sainsbury was despicable, but why would he seek to completely ruin Marcus? Not just ruin him, but potentially see him hanged, since that was the punishment for murder.
It made some sense. Or maybe Phoebe was simply trying to find a way to save Marcus. Discovering Sainsbury to be the villain in this scenario would be particularly satisfying, which meant it likely wasn’t true.
Phoebe summoned a feeble smile for Meg. “Thank you for your help. I’m so glad you’re here.”
Meg dipped a curtsey before she picked up the basin of water. “I am too, miss.” As she went to pour the used water into the bucket, Phoebe donned her shoes and tidied her hair. All the while, her mind turned at the possibility of Sainsbury’s involvement in Drobbit’s death.
Meg departed and then returned almost immediately. “There’s someone here to see you. Mr. Harry Sheffield from Bow Street.”
Phoebe’s blood turned colder still. “Thank you, Meg. Please let Culpepper know I’ll meet Mr. Sheffield in the garden room.”
Taking a final look in the glass, Phoebe smoothed her hair, then hurried downstairs. She composed herself and slowed as she entered the garden room. Mr. Sheffield stood near the glass doors that led to the garden. He was a massive presence, both taller and wider across the shoulders than Marcus, which seemed an impossible feat to Phoebe.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Sheffield.” It was nearly evening, actually.
He bowed. “Good afternoon, Miss Lennox. I do hope I am not intruding upon you.”
“Not at all. Would you care to sit?”
“Thank you.” He took her favorite chair near the hearth, prompting her to find another chair nearby. “I do hope you won’t think me too forward—and I want you to know that I will do my best to protect anything you tell me here with regard to your reputation.”
Phoebe’s curiosity was intrigued, but her thoughts were agitated after what she’d just learned from Meg. “I appreciate you saying that.”
“Pardon the indelicacy of my inquiry, but is it acceptable—to you—for me to assume that when I visited here early Wednesday that Lord Ripley had spent the night here?”
She didn’t want to lie, not about anything to do with what happened to Marcus’s cousin. “Yes.”
“What time did he arrive that night?”
“About…one, I think. Maybe shortly before.”
Sheffield clasped his hands in his lap. “How did he seem?”
Phoebe wasn’t sure how to answer that question. She thought back to that night. He’d come into her chamber, and she’d poured him a glass of port. He barely drank any of it because she’d stripped her dressing gown away almost immediately. There was little conversation.
“Fine,” she answered.
“He didn’t seem agitated or upset?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. He was as he always is—utterly in possession of his control and desires.” She blushed at her embarrassing choice of words. Plus, it wasn’t entirely true. He’d nearly lost control, and she’d had to remind him to don the French letter. “Why do you ask?” She wanted to know, and she didn’t want to leave the last word she’d said hanging in the air.
Sheffield frowned. “He came to Bow Street earlier and confessed to killing his cousin.”
“What?” The word spilled from her mouth without thought. “That’s ridiculous.”
The Runner’s expression was grim. “I think so too, and yet he insists he did it. I couldn’t determine why he would lie to me so I went back to the Horn Tavern. I learned that someone else visited Drobbit that night.”
There was an expectant weight to his words. “Who?” Phoebe asked.
“Your father.”
Phoebe clutched the arms of her chair, her insides somersaulting. She wanted to ask why, but she knew. Drobbit had been cheating her father. Marcus also knew that. “Did Marcus know my father was there?”
“Yes. One of the Horn’s employees, a maid, said she told Ripley about your father—she didn’t know his identity until Ripley referred to him as Lennox. That conversation happened just before Ripley confessed to me.”
The room swam before Phoebe. Marcus had confessed to this crime after learning her father may have committed it… “You don’t believe Marcus did this.”
“I do not. And neither does Mary—the maid I spoke with. Ripley told her he was trying to avoid hanging, which was why she told him about your father visiting. She’d withheld that information from me before because of some arrangement between Drobbit and her employer, Mr. Scoggins. Gentlemen who came to see Drobbit were to be kept secret. Mary feared for her job, so she didn’t say anything until she realized Ripley could be charged with a crime he didn’t commit.”
If Marcus hadn’t done this—and she was certain he hadn’t. Did that mean her father had? Phoebe couldn’t believe that either, and yet her father had been so angry of late. Angry enough to kill someone? No, she couldn’t imagine it.
She did, however, have an idea of someone who could. Someone who apparently always carried a pistol and had come home with gunpowder on his clothing that night.
“Are you all right, Miss Lennox?” Sheffield looked to her with an expression of genuine concern.
She was not, but she had to maintain her composure. She turned, breathing deep in an effort to slow her racing pulse. “I can’t believe that either Marcus or my father did this. The culprit has to be someone else. And I think I might know who.”
The Runner blinked in surprise. “Why didn’t you say so immediately?”
“I didn’t realize until right now. I mean, I suspected, but it seemed far-fetched. And it may still be.” She shook her head. “I’m confusing you. Let me start at the beginning. Apparently, Marcus fought with Mr. Laurence Sainsbury on Monday night. I believe he broke Sainsbury’s nose.”
“I’d heard about this fight. It doesn’t bode well for Ripley since it shows he has a violent side.”
“It also shows that Sainsbury does too,” Phoebe said, warming to her theory. “Did you know that Sainsbury carries a pistol?”
Sheffield�
��s auburn brows pitched into a V as he leaned slightly forward. “No, and how do you know this?”
“I’ve just hired a maid who was in his employ until this morning. She told me he returned home early Wednesday with gunpowder on his clothing. They’d assumed he’d gotten into a duel and that he’d won, for he was uncharacteristically happy. As opposed to the night before, when he’d arrived home in a rage with a bloodied nose, muttering about Marcus.”
The Runner abruptly stood and paced a few steps. He was quiet, clearly pondering what she’d told him. Then, just as suddenly as he’d gotten to his feet, he turned to face her. “You think Sainsbury killed Drobbit?”
“I think Sainsbury is a vengeful blackguard.” He’d done plenty to denounce Phoebe after she’d jilted him. “What if he went after Marcus the night after their fight and then, with the convenience of his pistol, found an opportunity to blame a murder on him?”
“That’s possible…” Sheffield took a few steps to the side and then returned to the same spot. “May I speak with your maid?”
“Of course.” Phoebe sent for Meg, who came to the garden room and timidly repeated to the Runner what she’d told Phoebe.
“I don’t suppose anyone in Mr. Sainsbury’s household saved the gunpowder-stained clothing?”
“I don’t know,” Meg said hesitantly.
Sheffield gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s all right. I’d like to go and speak with your former coworkers. Do you think they would talk to me?”
Meg wrung her hands. “Maybe, but only if Mr. Sainsbury wouldn’t be angry. He has a powerfully bad temper, sir.”
“I understand,” Sheffield said soothingly. “I will ensure the safety and well-being of everyone.”
“They can all come work here,” Phoebe offered. “I mean that. Until they can find employment elsewhere. And I’ll help them do that too.” It wasn’t as if Phoebe had anything else to do. Without Marcus, her life seemed incredibly empty, which was strange because it hadn’t felt that way before he’d come into it.
“You’re very kind, miss,” Meg said, her brown eyes warm with gratitude.
Phoebe turned to the Runner. “Is there anything else you need from Meg?”
“No.” He pivoted toward Meg. “Thank you for your assistance.”
Meg presented a quick curtsey and took herself off.
When she was gone, Phoebe asked, “So you think it’s possible Sainsbury could have killed Drobbit?”
“It is possible. I just wish Sainsbury had the same history of violence as Ripley.”
Phoebe put her hand on her hip. “Marcus fought with Drobbit for good reason. If you think that’s a history of violence compared to what Sainsbury has done—” She stopped herself before she revealed too much.
Sheffield narrowed his eyes at her. “What has Sainsbury done?”
Phoebe realized she had to reveal too much. To save Marcus. So she recounted, in less specific terms than she’d shared with Marcus, what Sainsbury had done to her. Instead of making her feel weak and horrid, the revelation steeled her with strength and something she’d once thought she’d lost: power. She concluded by saying, “When you question Sainsbury’s maids, ask them what he’s done. I believe you’ll find he has behaved consistently in terms of violence and reprehensible behavior.”
He nodded grimly. “He certainly sounds capable of killing Drobbit, whereas I don’t think Ripley is. However, after hearing what Sainsbury did, I am surprised the man survived his altercation with Ripley.”
“Why would you say that?” Phoebe asked.
“Because Ripley said the man deserved what he’d gotten and more.” Sheffield’s gaze softened slightly. “Ripley is the kind of man who protects the people he cares about. I’ve known him a very long time. You may think he’s incapable of emotion—sometimes I think he thinks he’s incapable of it—but he is not.”
His words warmed Phoebe, but then it was as if a bucket of frigid water had been tossed upon her. Marcus might care for Phoebe, but not enough to forge a future together. Especially since he’d just confessed to a crime he didn’t commit.
To save my father.
That wasn’t the action of a man who didn’t care, who didn’t feel emotion. Phoebe wasn’t sure what emotion he felt, but she knew her own heart, and she knew she loved him.
She longed to go to him, but she was also worried about her father. What if her theory about Sainsbury wasn’t true? “Are you going to Sainsbury’s now?” she asked.
“First, I’m going to visit your father. I would like to speak with him about his visit to Drobbit.”
“I’m sure he left the man alive,” Phoebe said with conviction.
“Hopefully, he can provide information that will corroborate that.”
“Do you mind if I go with you? I can leave immediately.” When he nodded, she went to the hall and asked Culpepper to send someone for her hat and gloves. Returning to the garden room, she asked, “What will happen to Marcus if we can’t prove Sainsbury—or someone else—is the real culprit?”
“Ripley is due before the magistrate tomorrow, and that’s without a confession, which I convinced him not to provide yet. After that, he’ll go to the Tower of London to await a trial in the House of Lords. If he confesses, there will be no trial, just punishment.” Sheffield didn’t elaborate on what that could be, but Phoebe could well imagine.
The world turned to gray around her. She fought to keep herself together.
Sheffield gave her a look that was surely meant to buoy her spirits. “Have faith. Even if he pleads guilty to manslaughter—which is what I will recommend the charge should be—he can claim privilege of peerage and, with luck, escape the worst of punishments.”
Luck. Phoebe prayed they had enough of that to go around.
Chapter 16
The pencil flew across the paper as Marcus detailed yet another drawing of Phoebe. He’d drawn several of her over the past few days and had no intention of slowing down or even stopping. He saw her in his mind’s eye in a myriad states and positions, and he wanted to commit them all to parchment.
Perhaps he’d cover the walls of his cell at the Tower with them.
Marcus’s hand didn’t slow, even with that maudlin thought. He supposed he should tell his retainers that as of tomorrow, he would no longer be a resident. After this drawing, he’d do so.
Except when he finished the drawing, he couldn’t move. He sat there staring at her image, her familiar dimples winking at him. She looked particularly mischievous in this one, her expression inviting and teasing at once.
An ache, dark and desperate, ate at him as he stared at her. He ran his finger over the paper, as if he could actually touch her face. How he wished that were possible.
“That’s beautiful.”
Marcus’s head shot up. Shock and elation jolted through him, driving him to his feet. “Where did you come from?”
Phoebe gestured to the entry to his private sitting room. “The door. You were rather focused on your work.”
He drank in her form, her sable hair gathered atop her head, a dark green cloak draped around her. “How long have you been here?”
“A few minutes, actually. As I said, you were rather focused.”
He couldn’t believe he’d missed her arrival, not when he’d been fantasizing about her. He wanted to rush over to her, to take her in his arms. But he’d put an end to his ability to do that. “How did you get up here?”
She lifted a shoulder as she removed her cloak, draping it over a chair. “Dorne was kind enough to tell me where to find you.”
“He didn’t announce you.” Why he was stuck on the hows of her presence was beyond Marcus, but his brain seemed arrested. There was really only one question he wanted answered. “Why?”
“Because I asked him not to.” She opened the front of her gown, and the bodice fell to her waist, exposing her underclothes.
Words tangled in Marcus’s mouth for a moment. “No, not why did Dorne not announce you. Why are you
here?”
Her gown loosened, and she stepped out of the garment, laying it over her cloak. Then she sat in the chair and began to remove her boots. “Why is a very good question. Let me ask you. Why did you end things between us?”
What the hell was she doing? Disrobing, obviously. But why? Yes, that was definitely the most important question. “I explained why.”
She exposed her knees and calves as she peeled away her stockings, and his body reacted, quivering with desire. “I know what you said, but I’m here to confirm what you meant.” She set her boots to the side, then stood, her hands going to the tie of her petticoat. “Did you end our affair because you can’t commit to anything at all or because you expect to hang?” She removed the petticoat, and the garment joined the others on the chair.
Marcus swore. Somehow, she knew he was going to be arrested tomorrow. “You’re aware I’m going in front of the magistrate tomorrow?”
“I am.” She sounded so calm, as if his entire life wasn’t about to change drastically. As if he hadn’t already ruined what they’d shared. And all while, she unlaced her corset. “I’m also aware you’re trying to protect my father, which is unnecessary. He didn’t kill Drobbit any more than you did.”
She fucking knew. “How—”
Having removed her corset, she now wore nothing but her chemise. She walked toward him with a feminine confidence that nearly destroyed what was left of his control. His hands shook when she stopped in front of him. She pulled the hem of his shirt from his breeches—he wore only the two garments.
“Harry is taking care of everything. He doesn’t think you’ll need to go to the magistrate tomorrow. I, however, still need an answer to my question. Why did you end things? If it’s because you can’t endure any kind of connection, tell me now, please, and I’ll go.”
“That is why, yes.”
Her gaze, so bold and seductive the entire time she’d been there, wavered with doubt. Something inside him shattered. He grabbed her waist and slammed her against him. “But I’ve changed my mind.”
She arched a dark, slender, ridiculously gorgeous brow and gave him a thoroughly sardonic look that pushed his already heated blood to boiling. “Because I’m here in my chemise?”
