Enticing the Earl (28 page)

He waited for her to finish, but she paused and did not go on. He pressed her hand and brought it to his cheek, wondering how he could make amends.

“Yes, it is a clever–clever ruse,” she continued, clearing her throat. “But eventually, he is bound to notice—”

He suddenly understood what she was saying. “There is no ruse!” He reached to grip her chin and turn her face to his. For the first time he saw the tears sparkling at the edge of her lashes. “My darling Lauryn, do you think I would make sport of such an important subject, to appease anyone?”

She blinked but didn't answer.

“I have been wanting to ask you to marry me for days, but I've been afraid….”

Her eyes widened.

“Yes, afraid, I blush to confess, to know what your answer would be.” He forced himself to go on. “I was terrified you might not stay…”

She raised her brows. “Marcus, do be serious. How many women have ever turned you down, even on much less important questions?”

“None of them were you,” he told her simply.

She caught her breath.

“But—” she began, than paused. “Before the squire came, you never spoke of it—”

“As I said, I was afraid to put it to the test.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked back at her. “Shall I be forced, as I was with the squire, to take you down and show you the special license?”

“You have already obtained it?” Her eyes widened again.

“Of course. When I went to London,” he told her. “It was one of the main reasons I traveled to town.”

“Before the squire came,” she repeated, almost to herself, and something lightened in her eyes. “So it is not just my honor…”

“Your honor is important, I have no doubt. But it is all of you I wish to hold on to, my darling Lauryn,” he told her. “Surely, you must know that by now.”

“I have had my own fears,” she said, very low. “I could not be sure, either, Marcus. You have known many beautiful women, charming women, talented women…”

Shaking his head, he pulled her closer and repeated into her hair, “And sad to say, none of them were you.”

They sat for a time, sharing the opportunity to be close. Lauryn was very quiet, laying her head against his chest. Then he kissed her once more and placed her upon her feet. “I regret to say we should likely go back downstairs.”

“Oh, dear, yes,” Lauryn said, blushing. “Squire Harris will think—well, heaven knows what he will think.”

She stopped at the looking glass over the bureau to make sure that her gown was straight and her hair in place, then they walked back down the staircase. The squire sat in the dining room with the contessa, having a late breakfast and conversing in apparent harmony.

So they sat down again at the table and had fresh cups of tea, and the squire told Lauryn about her family.

“I understand Ophelia has another play going on. Can't imagine that her husband the vicar puts up with that nonsense.” The old-fashioned squire shook his head. “I should think that she would have enough to keep her busy, especially now with the child, and all.”

Lauryn raised her brows. “Giles understands how important Ophelia's writing is to her,” she noted, her tone even. “Fortunately.”

A knock sounded; was someone else at the front door? Good grief, what further unexpected guests could surprise them? Lauryn looked across at the earl. Marcus turned and waited for the footman to return. This time he came with a silver tray, bearing a letter upon it.

Nodding, the earl accepted the letter and uttering his excuses to his guests at the table, ripped it open at once.

He frowned.

“Is anything wrong?” Lauryn asked.

“It is from Colonel Swift,” Marcus told them. “The Harbor Master has been killed. I think I should ride into town.”

“I can go with you,” the squire offered. “I need to find a hotel room, though I mean to start back for London, soon.”

“I would prefer, if you don't mind, for you to remain with the ladies until I return. I would feel better with someone here.” Marcus looked worried as he turned back to them. “We've had some strange occurrences of late. I would rather not leave them alone with only servants in the house.”

“Of course,” the older man said. “Happy to be of help.”

“But where iz your brother?” the contessa said, as if she had just noticed that Carter was not at the table.

“That is my other concern,” Marcus answered, his tone somewhat grim.

Lauryn looked at him, and he met her gaze with a worried frown. When he excused himself to the company, she followed him into the hall.

“May I not come with you?”

“I would really prefer that you do not,” he said, keeping his voice low. “There seem to be violent men involved in whatever menace swirls around us. I just hope—”

She looked into his eyes and touched his arm gently. “You don't really think Carter is involved?”

“I don't know,” he said honestly. “I hope not; I would not like to think he would be capable of this. But perhaps he became ensnared before he knew how deep he was going to be pulled in, or how evil the men he dealt with…I don't know. But I must find him.”

She put her arms about him and hugged him, then with a sigh, let him go. “Be careful,” she whispered.

He kissed her quickly, relishing the feel of her soft lips and the look of concern in her eyes.

“I will return as soon as I can,” he told her. “And I am going to send a couple of Swift's men to stand guard here. I do not like this habit someone has of killing anyone who seems to get in his way!”

As soon as his horse was saddled, Marcus set out, and he made good time into town, glad that the sky was clear and the road hard and dry. He went straight to Colonel Swift's residence.

Happily, the colonel was at home and waiting for him to arrive. Marcus was admitted at once and taken into the colonel's library.

“Glad that you're here, Sutton,” the ex-military man said, standing up from behind his desk as Marcus entered. He looked grave. “Bad business, this.”

“I was surprised to get your note. Is it clear that this is murder, then?” He took the chair that the colonel motioned him toward. “No question that it could have been an accident or a natural death?”

Swift poured them both drinks at the sideboard, and then brought the glasses balanced on a tray, offering one to Marcus, before returning to his chair. “Not unless you know how a man can strangle himself.”

“Point taken,” Marcus said dryly. He lifted his glass to the colonel, then sipped his whiskey.

“Were there signs of a struggle?”

“Almost none. A few papers scattered on his desk, but the lock on the door was not pried, and the body was found lying on the floor behind his desk. The Harbor Master did not seem to have made an excessive effort to try to get away.”

“Which suggests he did not realize he was in danger until the last minute, and that he most likely knew his assailant, don't you think?” Marcus suggested.

“Yes, my thoughts, too,” Swift agreed.

Marcus sipped the liquor, then said slowly, “I wonder if this killing could be connected in some way to the cargo recovered from my ship.”

The colonel narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I've found a problem there; someone was smuggling items in my ship that I had no knowledge of, until just recently. Now I'm trying to track down the miscreants involved. I wonder if the Harbor Master could have been taking bribes to look the other way—or even taking a percentage of the profit, perhaps.”

“Wouldn't surprise me, I'm sorry to tell you,” the colonel said, shaking his head. “This Harbor Master has not had the best reputation.”

“What about our men watching the shop on Two Hen Street? Anything new, there?”

“One interesting thing, well, two. Are you aware that your brother has been seen going into the shop?”

Marcus gritted his teeth. “Yes, he told me. My brother can be a bit of a fool. I'm afraid he may have tipped them off to the fact that we have been tailing them, but all we can do is hope not. What else?”

Swift pursed his lips. “Second, they've made two trips to a ship recently docked in the harbor, the
Blue Dragon
. We checked discreetly and its ports of call include Hong Kong and Calcutta.”

Marcus set up straighter. “Now, that is news, ports where most anything can be bought and sold.”

They discussed how to continue the watch over the warehouse and agreed they must put the ship in the harbor under observation as well. Marcus also asked for two men to be sent out to the hunting lodge.

Then he set out to check the hotel and the bigger taverns, but none of them offered any sighting of his brother.

Where the hell was Carter?

Surely his brother was not involved with this gang of smugglers?

Feeling a prickling of unease, nonetheless, Marcus observed the sunset coloring the sky and decided he had been gone too long. He wanted to get back to the shooting box and check that all was well; he wanted to see Lauryn. He'd considered going by the jeweler's shop, but there were better stores in London, and there was no rush, he told himself. Better to get home just now. He needed Lauryn inside his arms once more, just to reassure himself—would he ever be able to take her presence for granted?

He urged his horse on and before the light had started to fade, he slid out of the saddle, threw his reins over the horse's neck, and rapped the knocker on the door. It seemed to take too long for the footman to come, and he felt the skin crawl on the back of his neck.

If something was wrong—but then the servant opened the door, and Marcus cursed himself for having an imagination that was entirely too active.

He left the servant to take his horse around to the stable and strode quickly inside. He ascended the stairs with equal speed and glanced into the sitting room. Only the contessa met his eyes, but she put out her hand.

“Marcus!”

Something in her tone alerted him.

“What is it?” he demanded, and this time, a cold finger of alarm did run down his back. “What's wrong? Where is Lauryn?”

She looked at him, and he feared the pity he saw in her eyes.

“Madame Lauryn iz gone.”

M
arcus felt the room spin, and he had to put one
hand on the doorframe to steady himself “What do you mean?” His voice sounded harsh even to his ears. “How can she be gone?”

The contessa gave a dainty shrug. “
Je ne sais pas
. I do not know, me. I had gone to 'ave a rest. When I came down, the lady was not 'ere. Nor 'er father-in-the-law.”

He felt the blood in his veins turn to ice, and he could barely walk to the nearest chair. He fell into it. She had had second thoughts about the marriage. She did not love him, she could not bear to tell him so. She had asked the squire to take her home.

Oh, God, how could he bear it? He would be alone again.

Somehow, he had known, in that cold, far part of his heart, the part that had never warmed, that it was too good to be true. That long-buried fear that had survived from his childhood, the terror he had never acknowledged suddenly encased him with its hitherto unrecognized and paralyzing lethargy, and he felt as if he could not move, could not think.

Leaning forward, he dropped his face into his hands. His life was over.

“Marcuz!” the contessa admonished him. “You must not just zit there. Zomething is wrong, I know it muzt be.”

He was too lost in his own despair to hear her. Lauryn could not love him. No woman could love him. Certainly not someone as good and beautiful in body and soul as she. How had he deceived himself—folly, it was all folly.

“Marcuz, she took no clothes. It iz all wrong.”

But he had bought her new wardrobe, he thought dully. Lauryn had such pride, she had probably refused to take the new clothes with her. Although, God knew, he would have wanted her to have them. What would he do with them, except burn them to keep them from reminding him of her, her warm touch, her soft skin.

“Marcuz!”

To his shock, he felt a sharp slap on his cheek.

He looked up to see the contessa standing in front of him, her hands on her hips. “Are you mad? Listen to me!”

He blinked. Her voice was a distant buzzing. He tried to concentrate, tried to focus on the contessa instead of his increasing misery. “What did you say?”

“It iz not right, vhy vould she go now? You 'ad just made the proposal!”

“She does not love me,” he said dully, as if explaining something so obvious as fire burns and rain falls. “She does not want to marry me. I suppose she asked the squire to take her home.”

“You are being ze ninny, Marcuz!” The contessa shook her head. “Of courze the lady loves you. Do you not zee 'ow she looks at you? 'Ow she is pulled to you? Are you blind?”

A faint tremor of hope stirred inside him. He was afraid to allow it to take root. “But she never said yes. I thought she was happy, but now it occurs to me”—the words were like huge, jagged chunks of pure agony, and it pained him to pull them out, one by one—“It occurs to me that she never actually said yes. Worse, she has never said she loves me….” The lump in his throat was big enough to choke his own horse. He tried to swallow and found that he could not.

“Did you forbid 'er to zay the vord?” The contessa gave him a shrewd look.

“What?” He stared at her.

“Oh, Marcuz,” she shook her head at him and sighed. “I remember your tricks, my dear foolish man. When we began our tryst, you told me never to forget it was only for amuzement. You bade me not talk of love or commitment, never to think that we vould be together for the long time. Do you not recall? And what did you tell Miz. Smith of the changing names?”

Marcus groaned out loud. What a fool he was, indeed!

“But if she does love me, why would she leave?” He felt the first seed of hope put out tiny tendrils, and he was almost afraid to offer it encouragement. Did she really love him after all?

“That is vhat ve muzt think of,” the contessa suggested. “Because if Madame Lauryn did not go of 'er own volition, Marcuz—”

“My God!” He jumped to his feet. “If there is any chance of that!” He walked up and down, fear cold within him now, worse than even his despair had been. “You are sure she is not in the house?”

The contessa nodded. “
Oui
. I have zearched it all. Zent zervants to the outbuildingz, though why she vould go there—ve looked, but
c'est rien
. There iz not a zign of her.”

His lips pressed together into a thin line, Marcus headed back toward the front doors. He walked outside, looking around the front of the house. The gravel drive was too hard packed to offer him any clues, but he walked out to the gates, and there he saw something he had not bothered to take note of in his haste to see his love when he had ridden in.

A carriage had recently stood here; he saw the indentations in the slightly muddy earth, and signs of the horses that had pulled it. And there, more signs of carriage wheels, and if anything—he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle—the wheels seemed to leave slightly deeper lines in the soft earth, as if more weight might have been added to the carriage.

Had Lauryn been taken away in this unknown carriage?

The squire had come on the public stage and hired a smaller vehicle in the nearest town; these were not the marks of his gig, Marcus was certain. To be sure, however, he almost ran back to his stable.

Sure enough, the squire's hired gig still sat outside, and his two-horse team were still being tended by the earl's servants. No, Lauryn had not left with the squire, so they had two people unaccounted for, or three, if Marcus counted his brother.

Bloody hell.

His heart racing with fear for Lauryn, most of all, and concern for all of them, Marcus yelled at the nearest groom, “Saddle a fresh horse.”

“Aye, yer lordship,” the man answered, dropping the brush and hurrying toward the tack room.

Marcus ran back toward the house. Inside he told the contessa what he had found. “Send a note to Colonel Swift and tell him what we know, and what we fear,” he said.

“Vhat vill you do?” Her voice was tight with concern.

“Follow the tracks as long as they last,” he told her. “The drive is muddy, and the tracks will likely blend into other vehicles' treads on the road. But I must try.”

After Marcus departed, the contessa went upstairs. She
and the squire did not seem to get along; they had a fundamental difference of worldview, Lauryn thought, privately finding it a tiny bit amusing.

She offered to show the squire around the grounds; it was a bright sunny day after another night of rain, and getting some fresh air sounded appealing.

This turned out to be a good move, for when they had some private space, she discovered that the squire had more news to share.

“You may find this a surprise,” he said, clearing his throat as they walked among the blooming wildflowers and artfully planted shrubs that adorned the rock garden. “That is, I know it has been a short time, but I got to know her after you left. She came up to see about me numerous times, asked if I had ordered dinner, even blessed me out once when I came back to the hotel one night having, ah, overindulged in the spirits a bit, but in a way that seemed to indicate a genuine interest.”

“Really?” Lauryn lifted her brows. “Of whom are we speaking?”

“Oh.” The squire looked a bit self-conscious. “Miss Mallard, the hotel owner's daughter. I know she's not precisely a lady, perhaps, with her father in trade, but she's a very ladylike girl, nice manners and very modest and well behaved.”

Lauryn bit her lip to keep from smiling too widely. She thought she could see where this was going now, and she was delighted. “Oh yes, I thought so, too.”

“And I had noticed her earlier. We'd chatted now and then, you know,” he added. “So it's not all that sudden, in a way, but…”

“But?” she prompted, when he paused again and rubbed his boot against one the larger rocks, still seeming to find it hard to get all the words out. Was he afraid of what she would say? “I thought her very nice, myself.”

“Yes, indeed.” He brightened. “And it was so quiet, without you there, you know, so we began eating dinner together, and I got to know her better. Anyhow, I have proposed, and she has accepted,” he blurted, all in a rush. “And I hope you will not mind. Of course, now, it will not be so bad. I was worried about you and Martha sharing the same house, and perhaps not being happy, but now—”

“I think it is a wonderful surprise,” Lauryn told him, smiling and leaning to kiss her father-in-law's cheek. “I hope you both are very happy.”

He would have a reason to live again, she thought. He could go back to Yorkshire and put the pieces of his life back together. As young as Martha was, and really—the squire was not an old man—there was even the chance of more children. No one could replace her late husband, but if a new son or daughter should be born, it would make the squire and his new wife most happy. She blinked hard for a moment, then smiled most sincerely at him. “I'm delighted for you!”

He looked both happy and relieved, and they continued to walk and chat.

Presently, the wind picked up, and the clouds overhead turned darker.

“It looks as if it might rain again,” Lauryn observed, shivering. She had come outside without a shawl. “Perhaps we should go in.”

She led the way back toward the house. As she headed for the corner of the building, going first on the narrow rock path, she lowered her head against the breeze and almost stepped into a dark form.

Gasping, she looked up in surprise.

Hardly an arm's length away stood the Asian man she had seen spying on the warehouse.

Before she could call out, he had one hand pressed hard against her mouth, the other pulling her to him. He smelled of garlic and other spices she did not recognize, exotic, pungent scents. She kicked, but her soft boots did little damage, and his arms had remarkable strength. She struggled against him, but she could not break his hold, and she couldn't even make enough noise to warn the squire.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw two other forms slip around them and heard an ominous grunt as the thud of a blow fell. There was the crumpling of a body falling.

Oh, dear Lord, she thought. Don't let him be dead, not now, when he is finally ready to start living again.

And what about her? Would they kill her here, too, when she was so full of love, also taking the first steps toward a heady new life, with a man she loved so desperately?

Oh, Marcus, she thought, where are you?

And then lack of air made her lungs ache and her insides go hollow. Stars blossomed before her eyes, and her own knees weakened. She slumped against her attacker, unable even to struggle any longer. Darkness descended.

She came to once, facedown on a hard seat, becoming
dimly aware of the rumble of carriage wheels rolling and feeling herself jostled roughly. Desperate for air, she tried to get a breath, but she also felt instinctively that she must not show that she was awake, so even though her limbs cramped painfully, she did not move, and she kept her eyelids closed. She could feel ropes binding her arms, and something also bound her mouth.

Would she ever see Marcus again? Despair washed over her, and she almost sobbed aloud, but a memory of the comfort of his arms about her, the glory of their blissful unions, the simple pleasure of sharing a secret smile when they both found humor in someone's else's comment helped her hold onto a kernel of stubborn resolve. No, she must not give up!

She had found something so precious, so rare—a true kinship of mind and body and spirit—how dare these murderous criminals attempt to take that away from her just as she was about to grasp a whole wondrous new life?

“Oh, please, God, help me to survive,” she prayed silently. “Pray keep the squire safe, too; he also has a new life before him. Show me the way out of this.” She kept her eyes closed. If they were inside a carriage, she thought there would be little of merit to take note of, and she tried to have patience. It was not as if she had any choice! She had to bide her time.

It was as Marcus feared; before he had gone very far, it
became impossible to follow the muddy trail of the carriage as it blended into other treads from other carriages that had crisscrossed the main road. When he had jumped off his horse for the dozenth time and knelt to try to make out which track might mark the vehicle he sought, he knew it was hopeless. And the sun was higher now, drying up the muddy trails.

Cursing, he remounted and pushed his heels into his horse's sides, urging him on. At least now that he was not watching every foot of the road, he could make better time. As he rode, he thought hard. He had two leads, the shop on Two Hen Street and the ship in the harbor. Which was the most likely?

The ship worried him the most simply because if Lauryn were taken to the ship, and it were to set sail—his heart raced just thinking of the dangers! She could be taken to the other side of the world, or her throat cut and her body dropped into the ocean on the way, and he would never see her again, have no chance of saving her. He could not bear to contemplate such a fate!