The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (27 page)

Lady Tisdale began to furiously apply jam to her toast. “Really, Sarah, I’ve no idea what you’re referring to. I’ve not harbored any ill will toward the earl—though, in truth, I suppose we all—”

“Ladies,” Sarah’s father interrupted. “No need to quarrel. Let us put this behind us, shall we? The man is sitting in my study as we speak.”

“Yes, quite,” Lady Tisdale agreed, the layer of jam now an inch thick on her toast.

Her father’s words caused Sarah’s stomach to roll. Was Marcus going to ask her father for her hand? They’d hardly had time to talk of such things last night. She couldn’t decide if she was excited or terrified.

Sir Arthur set the folded paper down next to his half-empty plate and rose. “Very well. Don’t want to keep Lord Weston waiting,” he said cheerfully, giving Sarah a merry wink before walking from the room.

Did her father suspect the same? And for that matter, Sarah continued to speculate, was it possible that her mother did as well?

She turned and narrowed her eyes at her mother, who sat contemplating her shirred eggs.

“Sarah?”

Sarah ignored her mother’s query and leaned forward, searching for some small sign—a twitch, perhaps—that would indicate what her mother was thinking.

“Is there something on my face?” Lady Tisdale touched the linen napkin to her lips, the gaze she fixed on Sarah questioning.

“No, Mother.” Failing to discern anything useful from her mother’s behavior, Sarah turned to stare at the doorway. She picked up her teacup, lifting it to sip, but was suddenly too nervous to do so. She set the cup back into its saucer with a click. Absentmindedly, she turned it this way and that, this way and that, until the sweet brown liquid spilled over the lip and onto her hand.

She hardly noticed.

“Sarah?” her mother said for the second time, though in a far more irritated tone.

Sarah’s father appeared in the doorway, worry clearly written on his face. “Where is Nigel?”

Sarah pushed up from her seat, confused. “What does Nigel have to do with—?”

“Your brother, where is he?” Sir Arthur demanded.

“In his room, Father. Why?”

Lady Tisdale dropped her linen napkin next to her place setting on the table. “Really, what is going on here? First Sarah, and now you. Has the whole world gone mad?”

“Lenora, see to it that Nellie packs a bag for Nigel.”

Lady Tisdale huffed indignantly and drew herself up, clearly annoyed. “I’ll hardly do such a thing without knowing why.”

“You will do as I say, Lenora. Now!” Sir Arthur snapped.

His temper was so unlike his usual placid self that Lady Tisdale was speechless. Heart filled with foreboding, Sarah dashed around the dining table to run from the room, desperate to speak with Marcus.

But her father’s study was empty. She peered out the window and caught sight of him just outside, as he untied Pokey’s reins and lifted himself into the saddle.

Sarah turned to run for the foyer, catching her hip on the edge of her father’s desk and falling hard.

She picked herself up, ignoring the pain as she threw the entry door open wide and raced down the steps.

“Stop!” Sarah called, startling the big chestnut as she darted around him to catch the stirrup.

Marcus looked down at her, his face grim.

“Please, tell me,” she pleaded, searching his face for answers. “Why is my father sending Nigel away?”

Marcus captured her hand with his and held tight. “Do you remember what I asked of you—that you would trust me, no matter what?”

“I do.”

“Remember your promise.” Marcus released her hand then took up the reins and urged the Thoroughbred into a gallop.

And he was gone.

It had gone well enough, considering all that could have transpired.

Marcus’s conversation with Carmichael, precisely two hours past the most extraordinary sexual experience of his life, had not set well.

Not at all.

Carmichael had judiciously avoided any probing into the nature of Marcus’s time in the gazebo.

Marcus slowed Pokey to a trot, hardly anxious to return to the castle. He wanted whatever happened between them to be about only the two of them. Not the Young Corinthians. Not the smugglers. Not his family nor Sarah’s. Whatever the outcome, Marcus needed to know that he’d been true to his heart and hers.

He looked out over the cove, the throaty bark of a gray seal carrying on the wind.

She’d made it so simple for him. There’d been no blame, no conditions—just one surprisingly powerful slap and all was forgiven.

Marcus fingered his cheek where her hand had been, heat spreading as he thought about other parts of his body those hands had touched with sensual abandon.

Sarah hid nothing—apologized for nothing—demanding that he match her willingness and give himself over completely. And for the first time in his life, Marcus felt he could do so. She gave him courage in a way he’d hardly known he was lacking.

He’d executed his work with the Young Corinthians with ease and skill, never questioning his ability to face dangerous situations. But what Sarah offered required that he give of himself—not his skill nor his valor, but his heart and his soul.

Nothing less.

She made him believe he could do anything.

Ahead of him, Lulworth Castle came into view. Pokey nickered and trotted a bit faster.

Marcus hoped that he had inspired in Sarah the ability to do the same.

She’d kept her composure earlier, though he’d given her very little opportunity to do otherwise, he reflected. He suspected that, at this very moment, she was none too happy with him. But he’d known that a quick retreat would be wise. Sir Arthur would explain the situation and, though fabricated, the story would hopefully satisfy Sarah—at least for the time being.

Carmichael had insisted that the boy be brought to Lulworth Castle, as much for his own safety as for questioning. The constable would be blamed for requiring his confinement, thereby preserving the anonymity of the Corinthians and Marcus’s involvement with them, including Carmichael’s cover.

They’d wasted enough time as it was, Carmichael had stated in his famously taciturn way. He hadn’t blamed Marcus directly for the investigation’s lack of progress, but he hadn’t needed to. Marcus knew the truth of it already. His feelings for Sarah were getting in the way. Which would only put Nigel in more danger. Marcus would sort out his involvement in the Corinthians once the boy was safe and the smugglers captured, but not before.

Sarah would have to be patient, he realized. Hardly an easy task for the woman, but she’d promised. And Marcus
felt sure—more sure than ever before in his life—that she’d not let him down.

He pushed Pokey into a fast canter. It would hardly do to have Sully and the boy reach Lulworth before he did.

Sarah very nearly rolled her eyes at Mr. Dixon’s outburst, but she discovered she had neither the interest nor the energy to do so.

The man stood near the mantel, drinking her father’s brandy and acting as though he owned Tisdale Manor—and everyone within its walls.

Sarah’s mother moaned with dramatic flair. “That is precisely what I said.” She fidgeted with a tassel on the needlepoint pillow in her lap. “My poor boy,” she wailed. “Taken from the bosom of his family—”

“It is for his own safety,” Sarah’s father interrupted.

Mr. Dixon set his glass on the stone mantel and clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels with self-importance. “That may be, but has anything been proven?”

“There’s speculation that the boys stole from the smugglers,” Sir Arthur answered, taking a slow sip from his glass. “Surely you’ve heard it. The entire village can speak of nothing else.”

Lady Tisdale moaned again and covered her eyes with her lace handkerchief.

“Mother, we’ve already discussed the likelihood of Nigel’s involvement in such a crime, whether knowingly or not.”

“Yes, but is it really necessary for them to take him away?”

Sarah had wondered the same thing, though she was hardly going to feed her mother’s melodramatic tendencies at this point by appearing to be in agreement. Marcus had asked her to keep her promise. And she would.

“I will go to Lulworth Castle at once and confirm the boy’s comfort,” Mr. Dixon decreed, giving Lady Tisdale a reassuring look before he turned to Sarah and rested a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Sarah recoiled, covering her instinctive revulsion by turning to her father, the move allowing her to slip out from beneath the man’s touch. “Father, do you truly think this is wise?”

“I have Lord Weston’s word that Nigel will be treated with the utmost kindness, which is enough for me,” Sir Arthur replied with a firm nod.

Lady Tisdale burst into tears.

“That being said,” Sir Arthur continued, “if you wish to call upon Lord Weston for your own assurance, Dixon, I can hardly stop you.”

Mr. Dixon nodded condescendingly. “I would consider it an honor to look after the interests of your family.”

He walked at once to the doorway, bowed low, and was off.

“I must admit,” Lady Tisdale began, wiping delicately at her eyes, “Mr. Dixon’s eagerness to aid us at such a time is of great comfort.” She dropped the pillow on the settee and moved slowly toward the door, her body drooping disconsolately. “I believe I will lie down.”

“Rest well, my dear,” her husband offered. When his wife disappeared through the doorway, he slumped back into his chair.

“Father.” Sarah rose and crossed to Sir Arthur, kneeling on the floor next to his chair, her skirts a pool of sprigged yellow muslin against the blue wool carpet. “Mr. Dixon can hardly be trusted to look after anyone’s interests but his own. He’ll only get in the way.”

Sir Arthur sighed, his gaze troubled as he laid a hand on Sarah’s cheek. “As I said before, I cannot control
Dixon. But if I know Lord Weston, he won’t let the man interfere.”

“But Father—”

“Sarah,” he interrupted, his tone weary, “this is far more serious than any of us would like to admit. Please, do not question me further. When I have news of Nigel I will tell you. Until then, we wait.”

Sarah nodded, covering his hand with hers.

The last thing she was about to do was wait.

Sarah watched Mr. Dixon’s carriage trundle down the drive of Lulworth Castle before leaving her hiding place to approach the portico.

She rapped the carved knocker against the heavy oak panel and waited, Titus and Bones close behind.

A liveried servant opened the door and peered out at Sarah. “Yes?” he asked impatiently.

“Miss Sarah Tisdale to see Lord Weston,” Sarah said succinctly, moving to step inside.

“I’m sorry,” the man said in a clipped tone, barring her way. “Lord Weston is not available at the moment.”

Sarah stepped back. “I’m certain if you tell him my name, he will make himself available.”

“I have been told that Lord Weston is not available to see
anyone
, which it seems to me would include you, Miss Tisdale.”

Titus growled low in his throat.

Sarah had half a mind to release the big dog on the obnoxious man.

If he wasn’t lying, then Marcus meant to keep her from Nigel.

None of this made sense. “I’m sure we could clear this up if you would only let me in—”

“No,” the servant said with finality, and shut the door in Sarah’s face.

Sarah turned on her heels.

“Bugger!”

Both Titus and Bones barked loudly at the vulgarity.

“I promised to trust him.”

Growling ensued.

She felt just as the dogs sounded.

If she could only speak with Marcus and make him understand. Sarah fully supported the constable’s need to not only question Nigel further, but protect him from the very real danger. If Marcus heard these words from her lips, Sarah felt sure he’d allow her entry.

She could be useful, after all. It was true that her attempts to ferret out Nigel’s involvement in the smuggling scheme up until this point had proven fruitless, but she’d hardly pressed the point, confident that in time her brother would reveal all. She’d made a mistake waiting, that was clear to her now.

Her father’s words echoed in her ears: “This is far more serious than any of us would like to admit.”

Sarah looked at the circular driveway, then down the long, straight, graveled path that would take her home. “Come along, boys,” she said to the dogs. She lifted her skirts and picked her way down the steps, then took a sharp turn toward the back of the castle.

Marcus sat across from Nigel in the nearly bare room. All excess furnishings and adornments had been removed, leaving only two simple chairs and a small wooden table in the corner.

“Thirsty?” Marcus asked the boy, who looked ready to cry.

Nigel nodded, his eyes remaining fixed on the floor.

Marcus stood up and crossed the room to a porcelain pitcher on the table. He poured a cup of watered wine and returned to where the boy sat, slumped in the straight-backed wooden chair.

He handed the cup to Nigel and took his own seat once more.

Marcus knew the boy was near collapse.