The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (24 page)

Clive had seen one of the Frenchmen question Jasper and then strangle him, right then and there on the beach.

He’d known there was nothing he could do and so he’d waited. Pissed his pants with fright, and waited for the men to leave. And then waited some more.

Finally, he’d run all the way home, dug the emerald from under the straw pallet on his cot, and taken it to the well.

He figured they couldn’t kill him if they didn’t know where the jewel was. Some protection, Clive had said. He’d make a deal, gain a bit of blunt, and hopefully keep his head attached to his neck.

He and Jasper hadn’t involved Nigel because, being the son of a baronet, he wanted for nothing.

Nigel had felt oddly sad, as if risking death would have been worth it to have been included in his friends’ adventure.

But now his heart pounded as he raced toward the well.

He thought about the conversation with Clive over and over.

His friend had been so sure that he could handle the French. That he’d come out on top despite what had happened to Jasper.

Nigel turned off the path and fought his way through the bracken and fern, fronds slapping at his arms, his chest, his face.

He pictured Clive as he’d last seen him, at Jasper’s funeral.

Nigel slowed as the well came into view, dropping his pace to a jog as he crossed the grass.

Clive had begged him not to tell anyone.

He shouldn’t have listened.

Nigel reached the stone well and placed both hands on its worn surface, catching his breath.

He’d gagged at the news of Jasper’s death.

And wanted to die himself when he’d heard about Clive.

He gritted his teeth, blinked moisture from his eyes, and pulled at the worn length of rope, hand over hand.

The bucket scraped against the mossy stone as it pitched precariously from side to side, coming into view just as it threatened to upend.

Afraid it would tip over and lose its contents, Nigel yanked, and the bucket flew past him, landing with a soft thud on the ground.

He sank to his knees and reached for the small package, no larger than the palm of his hand, wrapped in filthy muslin.

Nigel didn’t bother to unwrap the treasure. He had no desire to see what had caused the deaths of his two friends.

Jasper and Clive were gone—all because of this stupid emerald.

“I’ll get the bloody bastards responsible,” he said out
loud, looking up into the canopy of trees. “I’ll make them pay with their lives.”

He shoved the small, dirty parcel into his pocket and took off running again, needing to be home.

He’d no idea what to do next.

He was afraid to do anything at all.

But as he ran breakneck back through the forest toward Tisdale Manor, he knew that he had to do something to make them pay.

Marlowe followed Nigel silently through the woods, making sure the boy returned to Tisdale Manor safely.

Then he doubled back and sought out the path through the woods that would take him to the cliffs. From there he planned to cross to Lulworth Castle, where Carmichael and Weston awaited him.

He’d been twelve himself once. And as such, Marlowe knew the boy’s pledge to seek revenge ought to be taken seriously.

Never mind the fact that the scrawny youth was hardly a match for Napoleon’s cohorts.

No, the boy would not give up on his goal easily.

Something needed to be done. And quickly.

Marlowe reached the stately front door of Lulworth Castle and rapped loudly. The door opened wide and Weston and Carmichael appeared before him, both with fowling pieces lying casually over their forearms.

“Up for a bit of hunting, Marlowe?” Weston asked, stepping out onto the stone steps and heading for the drive.

Carmichael followed and Marlowe fell into step. The men walked in silence for some time, one occasionally firing off a round at the sudden, desperate flight of a bird.

“Marlowe, do you have news?” Carmichael asked, squinting at a copse of trees.

He reached for Weston’s gun, readied it, and fired at nothing in particular. “The boy is in possession of the emerald—and a healthy appetite for revenge.”

“Meaning?” Weston asked, taking his gun back.

Marlowe smiled. “Come now, you were twelve once, were you not? My guess is that he’ll use the jewel to arrange a meeting. And then he’ll do his damnedest to take revenge.”

“He could not possibly think he would be able to carry out such a task,” Carmichael said.

Marlowe reached for a long blade of grass and began to split it into two. “Well, I’d wager that he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. Either way, he’ll get himself killed.”

“The boy is no good to us dead,” Carmichael replied sternly.

Weston took hold of the barrel with both hands. “Good God, Carmichael, he’s more than a means of information.”

“Of course. But his safety is a priority, would you not agree?”

Weston twisted his palms about the gun ruthlessly, nodding in agreement.

“We’ll move the boy to Lulworth Castle as soon as possible. Marlowe, your success with the Mercier interrogation was quite impressive. I’ll leave the boy to you.”

Weston swung the gun to the ready and fired into the trees. “If I remember correctly, Mercier nearly died.”

Marlowe sent the bits of grass in his hand flying on the breeze. “We got what we needed from him, didn’t we?”

“This is a twelve-year-old boy we are speaking of,” Weston pressed, his voice laced with anger.

Carmichael looked at Marlowe, then at Weston, his brow furrowed. “Do you wish to interrogate the boy yourself, Weston?”

“Do I have any other choice?”

*    *    *

The house was silent. Blissfully, forgivingly silent as Sarah sat at her rosewood table, writing.

She’d suffered through Claire’s final fitting and accompanied her mother home, struggling to maintain her composure. Not until she’d seen Nigel with her own eyes had she felt the easing of the iron fist of fear around her heart.

After a brief hello, she’d quietly closed the door to Nigel’s room and fled the confines of the house for the open air. She’d run. And just for good measure, run some more.

The air and space had restored her equanimity sufficiently to sustain her through dinner—even when her mother insisted that Sarah speak immediately, if not sooner, to Nigel.

Her brother had refused to attend the meal, choosing instead to dine in his room.

Sarah suspected Nigel needed time.

She fiddled with the quill pen, rolling it between her fingers. Though writing in her journal was hardly a habit for Sarah, she picked up the pen now and again at Claire’s insistence. Good for the soul, her dear friend had assured her.

“Bugger.”

Nigel needed time, that much was clear. But for what, exactly?

She simply could not believe he would knowingly involve himself in something so sinister. But unknowingly? Of course such a thing was possible. Nigel was twelve. And he was, well, a boy, as she’d had to point out to her mother that very afternoon.

And he was surely terrified by now, no matter the depth of his involvement. Sarah wanted to take him in her arms and assure him that everything would be all right. But she could not. She would be lying if she did so.

She looked down at the foolscap, the name “Marcus” scrawled in her hasty script.

She needed so much to see him.

She needed him. Wanted him. Felt sure that he would put right everything that plagued her heart and soul at present.

Not that she believed he was a miracle worker—hardly. He was far from perfect, but it didn’t matter. In some way, his imperfections made him perfect—for her. All that Sarah wanted was
all
of him. The good, the bad, and otherwise.

Before meeting Marcus, she’d never thought to rely on a single person for aid—it simply had not occurred to her.

But Marcus had her considering the unthinkable. Believing in the unbelievable. Wanting what she’d always assumed she could never have.

She closed her eyes and ran the smooth quill feather over her lips. In the midst of chaos, her mind turned to him.

She was neither embarrassed nor apologetic. He’d witnessed her for who she was, with her clumsiness, spontaneity, boldness, and candor. And still, he was there.

She loved him.

And though she would have wished for such a realization to occur in the midst of a time of joy, Sarah suspected that peace and happy times would never have brought to the surface her true feelings for Marcus. She gently set the quill down.

Nothing had ever been so simple in her life.

Nor would anything ever be again.

“It’s charming, this little town of yours,” Carmichael commented with interest. He stood just inside the terrace doorway with Marcus, observing Lulworth society as the ladies and gentlemen arrived at the Benningtons’ for the much anticipated ball.

Marcus’s laugh was a low sound of amusement. “It’s hardly mine,” he responded, smiling as two men he’d met at the Bennington house party passed by and nodded in friendly recognition.

“Well, perhaps not,” Carmichael conceded. “Though it appears you’ve made up for your lack of attention to the county in the past.”

“Yes, well—” Marcus gestured for Carmichael to accompany him out onto the terrace, “—it’s amazing what taking a bit of initiative will do, especially when it involves a crime.”

The two left the stately room, Marcus allowing Carmichael to pass through the opened doors first.

The swell of attendees spilled out into the warm night. Decorative lanterns swung gently in the light breeze off the sea. Their golden glow cast circles of soft light, revealing and then concealing the guests as they strolled.

“That, and the help of a good woman,” Carmichael added, smiling at the sight of two guests who’d wandered off the path and into an alcove half-concealed in
the tall laurel hedge. He clasped his hands behind him and glanced sideways at Marcus. “Sully mentioned a Miss Tisdale.”

The muscles in Marcus’s jaw tightened. “Miss Tisdale has been quite helpful. She offered to ease my way into Lulworth society, if you can believe such a thing.”

“It appears she’s been successful,” Carmichael replied, noting with some interest yet another party who strolled by and smiled in greeting.

Marcus nodded briefly, returning the gesture of goodwill with a charming wink. “Yes, I suppose. Her connections with the townspeople certainly made the investigation easier in the beginning.”

“Is that all?”

“What else would there be?” Marcus asked abruptly. “I won’t be spending any more time here than is completely necessary—and may I remind you, Miss Tisdale’s brother is wrapped up so tightly in this case that he can barely draw breath. No, the woman fancies herself in love with me—a notion I’ll be putting a stop to immediately.”

“Why?” Carmichael asked quietly.

Marcus’s hands curled into fists. “I’ve my reasons. Besides, I told you, I’ve no desire to stay here.”

This was not going well.

And then there she was. She stood in the doorway like some enchanted creature, the candlelight from inside the ballroom highlighting her curves in a blue silk gown.

Marcus ignored the swift stab of pain in his chest, just over his heart. Without taking his gaze from Sarah, he cleared his throat. “And there she is now.”

“Oh,” Carmichael replied, his voice devoid of emotion.

Sarah’s searching gaze found Marcus and a smile lit her face. She quickly stepped onto the terrace and began
to thread her way toward him through the throng of strolling, laughing guests.

A trio of men hurrying toward a cluster of young ladies passed too closely behind Sarah and one of them knocked into her while attempting to avoid another lady. He bumped her hard enough that she faltered in mid-step and tripped on the hem of her gown. In an instinctive attempt to catch her balance, she raised her arms as counterweights.

Unfortunately, a servant chose that precise moment to dart past her with a tray of fluted glasses.

The servant managed to remain upright.

The tray did not. The crystal fell with a crash to the stone floor of the terrace.

Carmichael turned to take in the chaotic scene, along with seemingly everyone else on the terrace. “She certainly knows how to make an entrance.”

Sarah’s cheeks were flushed with embarrassment as she looked past the apologetic servant to Marcus.

He wanted to stalk across the intervening space and toss the clumsy youth over the balustrade, then sweep Sarah away from the raised eyebrows and judgmental glances, but he had a charade to play tonight. The game didn’t include defending Sarah—quite the opposite, in fact.

With effort, he schooled his features into a frown of disapproval and turned back to Carmichael. “Yes, she does.” His voice held no inflection whatsoever.

Carmichael’s shrewd gaze met Marcus’s and he lifted an expressive brow.

Head held high, Sarah made her way through the onlookers and joined the two men at last. “Lord Weston,” she began, dropping into a graceful curtsy. “I do hope you’re not excessively thirsty. I’ve reason to believe the supply of spirits has been somewhat depleted.”