How I Married a Marquess (28 page)

He cleared his throat. “What did you find?”

“I don't know. A list of names and dates, some notes…” Her fingers flipped through the pages, her brow furrowing in a frown. “This is the oddest thing, but in the back, it looks like an account ledger of men's names.”

“A ledger of names?” he repeated, puzzled.

“At the front of the book, each page has a name written at the top. I recognize these. They're the men connected to the orphans, and some of the notes make mention of Potter in Islingham.”

He shrugged, not yet convinced that she'd found the proof she needed against Royston. “Every village has at least one potter.”

“Not
a
potter,” she corrected firmly. “Henrietta Potter. The woman who runs the orphanage.” She ran her finger over one of the pages. “And I wasn't the only one making the families pay. Listen to this—‘Jane Steadwell. October 1810—Potter accepted delivery. May 1812—John Steadwell argued favorably for Italian trade vote in Commons. Roberta Huntley. January 1811—Potter accepted delivery. November 1814—George Huntley introduced canal bill in Lords.'” She glanced up at him, her eyes shining with excitement. “Royston's been manipulating votes in Parliament. Thomas, we found it! Proof of what he's been doing.”

He stared at her grimly as his insides churned in a riot of betrayal and anger. Josie had been right all along. Royston had been lying to him and his family for years, pretending to be the reputable peer he wasn't—
Christ
, he'd lied to all of England, manipulating and blackmailing for his own gains. And the bastard had used innocent children to do it.

He should have been relieved that the motivation behind Josie's crimes had been validated, that they'd found the evidence that would prevent her swinging from the gallows or being sent to gao
l. Hell, he should have been tugging her into his arms with joy and carrying her back to the bed, to spend the rest of the afternoon making love to her, now that he knew she was vindicated.

Yet the tingling at the back of his neck told him that what she'd found was s
o much worse than evidence of political favors. He held his breath, forcing himself to ask calmly, “You said there was a list of men's names?”

“In the back. That's the part that made me think of a ledger.” She flipped to the end of the book. “This part looks like an account book, with a column of dates, another of payments made, one of payments received. But instead of listing items in the center column, Royston's written names.”

His heart thudded, skipping a fearful beat. Royston had deep connections within the War Office. That was how the earl had known to come to him for help with the highwayman. And if Royston was engaged in political blackmail, if he was making lists of names and recording prices next to them, then…
Oh Christ
.

“Jo,” he said somberly, trying to ignore the chill of dread tickling at the base of his spine, “stop reading now.”

She flipped back and forth between the pages. “Here's another list, with the same columns of dates and payments made and received—”

“Josephine, stop.”

“But some of the names have been crossed out…James Fitch-Batten, Stephen Graves, Vincent Matthews—”

“Stop.”

She looked up, and he saw the blood drain from her face, the green pools of her eyes suddenly stormy and intense. “Thomas Matteson,” she whispered, reading the last name. “You knew, didn't you? When I started describing the lists—you knew your name would be here.” Her eyes narrowed as suspicion darkened her face. “How?”

“Because I was once one of those men.” When he pushed himself away from the window and approached her, she stepped back as if suddenly afraid of him. He stopped, hating the trepidation he saw on her face. “Listen to me—”

“What connection do you have to Royston?” she demanded as she inched away from him. “You said he was just an old family friend.”

“He is. Nothing more.”

“Then why is your name here?”

His jaw tightened as he glanced at the book in her hands. “Because you're right. That
is
a ledger. It's Royston's account book. He's been working with the enemy and recording his transactions inside.” He couldn't tell her the entire truth, that the listed names were of British secret agents, because then her life would be placed in as much jeopardy as those of the men listed inside that book.

Her lips parted warily, the color fading from them just as it had from the rest of her face, but she boldly held his gaze. Then her eyes flicked down to the page. “Your name's been crossed off. What does th—”

“That book is dangerous. Give it to me.” He held out his hand. When she didn't move, he added softly, “Please.”

But she was sharp and inherently distrustful, and she must have sensed why he now wanted the book when he'd practically forced it on her only moments ago, because instead of handing it over she clutched it tightly in her arms. With a sickening knot clenching in his gut, he knew he had a fight on his hands to get it away from her.

She took another step away, angling toward the door. If she made an attempt to run, he'd be on her before she reached the hallway.

“Josephine,” he ordered calmly, “hand over the book.”

“Why?” She tightened her grip around it, so hard her fingertips turned white against the black cover. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Destroy it.”

“I won't let you.” Another step backward, almost to the door now—“This holds the proof I need to free John Cooper and stop Royston from ever harming those children again.” Another step. “It has all the names, all the dates, the favors he took in return…”

That book held so much more, and because of that, he could never let her leave this room with it. “I'm sorry, Jo, but I need that book.”

“Because your name is listed inside?” Her chin jutted into the air accusingly. “Who are you helping now, Thomas—Royston, the orphans…or yourself?”

That accusation pierced his chest, but he kept his face even, his expression blank, to hide the pain she so easily inflicted on him. Then he knew why the War Office didn't want its field agents to marry. Affection made them far too vulnerable, especially to the ones they loved. “Give me the—”

She bolted.

He caught her in a heartbeat, pouncing on her and pressing her against the back of the door, the same spot where he'd pinned her less than hour before when he'd been inside her and she'd fiercely returned his passion. Now, though, not desire but fury blazed in her eyes as he pivoted her around to face him and pressed her shoulders against the white-paneled wood.

The swirling suspicion and distrust on her beautiful face broke his heart. He'd proven himself no better than those men before him who'd thought they had a right to hurt her. But he had no choice.

“Let go of me,” she demanded, her voice low and trembling.

He did as she asked, sliding his hands off her shoulders, but he placed them on either side of her to keep her trapped between the door and his body. “That book will not leave this room. I cannot allow that.”

“Cannot
allow
?” The disbelief ringing in her icy voice was cutting. “You'd rather John Cooper remains in gaol
, or that I take his place behind bars? Because that's the decision you're making, Thomas.” She hesitated, as if afraid to put voice to her fears, then whispered, “This book or me.”

“I know,” he said soberly.

His quiet admission tore through her in a shudder, and she stared at him as if she couldn't believe…Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “And the evidence you need to get back into the War Office? Without Royston's recommendation, this book is all you have. You'll be destroying that as well.”

He heaved out a ragged breath, the burden of fighting against her weighing heavy on his shoulders. “I know that, too.”

“I don't understand.” Alarm crossed her face as she slowly held up the book. “What
is
this? What has Royston been doing, exactly?”

Ignoring her questions, he gently took the book from her trembling fingers, and his solemn gaze bore into hers. “You can never tell anyone you saw this book or read the names in it, understand?”

“What is it that you're trying to hide fr—”

He slapped his palm against the door, making her jump and stopping the question he could never answer without putting her life at risk. And he would never,
ever
endanger her. “Understand?”

Silently she studied his face as if he were a stranger and not the man who had been intimate with her, so familiar with her that he now knew every curve and blemish on her body. And she the same with him. Except that she now also distrusted him, and he regretted with every bit of his being the need to threaten her into keeping her silence.

Then her expression turned harsh. All the affection he'd seen in her during the past week vanished beneath a look of fierce betrayal. “I understand,” she bit out.

He turned away from her and crossed to the fireplace, grabbed the poker to stir up the small fire until the exposed coals glowed red, then made a motion of tossing the book onto the fire.

“No!” She lunged forward.

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her in a circle, snatching her back just before the coals burned her outstretched fingers.

“Don't do this, Thomas!” she pleaded, fighting against him. “Please!”

“Josephine, stop.” He pulled her farther away from the fireplace, letting her struggle but not slip from his grasp. He lowered his mouth to her ear and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly against him. “Please, love…let it go.”

An anguished cry tore from her as the flames rose higher in the fireplace, and in a matter of seconds, nothing could be seen but a pile of ash. She stopped struggling, and with a fierce shove, she jerked herself free of his arms. Her glare cut like ice at his betrayal.

“Tomorrow,” she said firmly, her hands clenching into fists at her sides, “the party will end, and you can return to London. No one will ever know what happened between us. And we can forget we ever met or made the mistake of being intimate.”

The pain that ripped through his chest was as blinding as that of the bullet that had pierced his side. “Josephine,” he rasped out hoarsely, “listen to me—”

“You're good at keeping secrets,” she choked out, the tears shining in her eyes only compounding the pain clawing inside him. “It's what spies do best, isn't it? Surely you can keep this one.”

“Jo, please.” He reached for her.

She put up her hand in warning and backed away. “Do
not
touch me—do not
ever
touch me again!”

He dropped his hand to his side. He deserved every bit of her anger for being weak enough to take her innocence when he could offer her no future, for making her distrust him when he could provide no answers. Yet he couldn't do what she wanted and simply ride away tomorrow, to leave her at the mercy of Royston when he discovered the ledger was gone and to leave John Cooper in the hands of the constable. He certainly would never be able to forget her or how it felt to hold her in his arms. And the very last thing he wanted was never to be able to touch her again. “What happens to you while I'm riding back to London?”

Her chin rose, daring him to challenge her. “I'll turn myself in for arrest.”

“I won't let you do that,” he assured her calmly.

“Just try to stop me!”

She turned on her heels, and as her hand swiped angrily at her eyes, the small movement of vulnerability sliced through him like a saber. Pausing only to glance into the hallway to make certain no one saw her leave, she fled the room without looking back.

The door slammed closed behind her.

Cursing at himself, Thomas reached beneath his waistcoat and withdrew the black book, the same one Josie had flipped through just moments before. He opened it and scanned through the list of names to confirm what he already knew to be the truth before he tossed it onto the bed in disgust.

Somehow Royston had gotten the names of the War Office's secret operatives, both here in England and on the Continent, and was selling their names to the enemy, one man at a time, with the audacity to keep an ongoing record of the prices on their heads. Like pigs sent to market for slaughter. His
name had been crossed off only because he'd been released as an agent and so carried no more value. But many of the men whose names were marked with payments had been caught by the enemy, tortured, killed…and the same would happen to Josie if anyone ever discovered she'd seen that list.

He'd made the right decision just now, he
knew
that. The lives of the men listed in that book and Josie's safety were far more important than his own selfish wants. By letting her think he'd destroyed the book, though, and with it all her hopes of linking Royston to the orphans, he had also shattered whatever trust she'd placed in him.

But he now had exactly what he'd come to Lincolnshire to get—information he could trade for a foothold back inside the War Office. Information, in fact, that would make Bathurst welcome him back as an even bigger hero than when he'd left.

Except that he didn't feel like a hero. He felt like a ruthless bastard.

He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. The party ended tomorrow. Not only would he no longer have an excuse to linger at Blackwood Hall, especially now that Royston was convinced the highwayman had been caught, but thanks to him and that damned book, Josie was now determined to turn herself in.

One day. He had one day to put together a plan to rescue Cooper from gao
l, arrest Royston for treason, help the orphans, and save both Josie and her reputation, all at the same time.