In the Arms of a Marquess (29 page)

She stared into the fire, her vision blurring.

“Do not hurt me again, Ben.” Her words were barely a whisper. “I think I would forget entirely how to be me.”

His arms came around her and he gathered her to him, lips pressed to her brow. Drawing back, he threaded his fingers through her hair and held her, his eyes lit with sparks from the flames full of wonder and longing.

“I will not. I could not.”

Her lungs compacted.

“I—” she choked out. “I am so in love with you.” Trembles shook her, of fear and fullness. “I have always been.”

His throat worked, his eyes a storm of darkness. But he did not speak. Tavy’s heart pounded, joined by an echo, a staccato rapping on the door.

“Milord
?
” The hushed voice came urgently from the other side of the panel. But in Tavy’s heart another voice spoke, cold and sharp, Aunt Imene telling him to take his hands off her. The expression in his eyes now was the same as then, warmth rapidly withdrawing into distance.

He drew a hard breath. “Blast.”

“An understatement, perhaps.” She pulled out of his arms.

He grasped her wrist and with his other hand stroked back her hair. Then he released her, pulled on his trousers, and went to the door, closing it behind him.

Tavy tugged a bed linen around her body and sat motionless. She suspected his servants would not disturb him like this unless absolutely necessary. But her heart spun around the seven-year-old memory of waiting for a man who never returned. And he had not said he loved her.

The door opened and Ben came across to her. He bent, wrapped his hand around the side of her face and tilted her mouth up to his. The kiss was too sweet, too perfect, and far too brief.

“I must go out now.” His voice was low.

“Now?”

“I must attend to a bit of business.”

In the middle of the night. Business as only this man would have.

She managed to nod. “All right.”

“I will return shortly. Don’t leave.”

“Don’t—”

“Stay.” He backed toward the dressing room door.

“Stay?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, the dent appearing in his cheek. “Stay.” He went into the other chamber. He reappeared shortly, dressed with a careless elegance that stole Tavy’s breath, and crossed to the door. He paused. Then he returned to her, scooped his hand around the back of her head and kissed her hard.

“Stay.” He broke away and departed.

Tavy stared at the door. Finally she crawled up the bed to the pillows, lay down on her side and tucked her hands beneath her cheek. But without his body to heat her, she was chilled. She rose and went to the fire to stoke the coals. Their clothing lay scattered upon the floor. She draped her gown and undergarments over a chair.

With ridiculous shyness she gathered Ben’s discarded clothes too. His chambers were understated and masculine, done in dark woods and jewel-toned fabrics. She glanced about, hoping to find hints of India, but it felt like prying to look too closely, so she laid his clothing on the dressing table. She hesitated, then took up his cravat and shirt again and pressed them to her face, breathing in deeply. Her legs got wobbly, of all things.

She set down the clothes, her fingers brushing over a stiff square in the pocket of his waistcoat. She yanked her hand away. If it was prying to look around his chambers, then it certainly would be a greater intrusion to dig into his pockets.

Instinct and something more than curiosity drove her. The note unfolded easily between her fingers.
Take particular care of your loved ones.

The air of the chamber seemed to grow colder. Was that where he had gone? Were his loved ones in trouble now, in the middle of the night? Who? Constance? Lord Styles?

Tavy stuffed the paper back into the pocket, her stomach sick and heart racing. She crossed the frigid chamber to the bed, climbed in and pulled the blankets up to her neck.

She did not sleep, eyes wide to the deepening black of night as the coals in the grate died to embers, then to ash, and still he did not return. Again. In the darkness, her body strung with mingled fulfillment and dread, Tavy began to understand about all those years ago and a beautiful young man who, perhaps, simply could not return to her. Who, with the world’s troubles as his daily responsibility, might never be able to. Just as he might never be able to tell her everything she longed to know. Or, even, to love her.

Finally, she understood. And it made her feel very small indeed.

Chapter 22

DESERTION. The act of forsaking a ship or boat, or running without leave of absence.

—Falconer’s
Dictionary of the Marine

“H
e’s counting his last minutes, milord, or else I wouldn’ta bothered you like that.” Sully’s thick brow furrowed as he climbed aboard his cob.

“How long ago was he shot?” Ben pulled Kali around.

“An hour, I ’spect. Jimmy’s watching him now, but he ain’t no surgeon. If the bully-back kicks a’fore we get there, I wouldn’t blame the lad for it.”

Ben rode fast, pressing Kali through the dark streets, her hooves striking cobbles then hard-packed dirt when they accessed the narrower alleys. He pulled the mare to a halt before the mews in the most familiar street to him this side of Mayfair, threw the reins to the stable hand, and went inside. The scents of horses and gin met him in the chill air.

Sully pressed open a stall door. “In here, milord.”

Beside a prone form, a hulking youth with half-lidded eyes crouched against the wall. He stood and pulled the brim of his cap.

“Bloke’s frightful bad off, milord.”

“Thank you, Jimmy. That will be all.” He gestured the men out then knelt in the straw beside Sheeble.

He was a small man, dark-whiskered, and wiry like most sailors. Now his weathered face shone ghostly pale in the lamplight, his lips gray.

“If ye’ve come to finish me off,” he gurgled, barely moving his mouth, “then go ’head and do it right quick, yer lordship. I’d ’preciate it. I got me a nast—” He coughed and blood flecked onto his lips. “—nasty belly ache.”

Ben drew back the blanket covering him. Crimson soaked Sheeble’s shirt and waistcoat. His narrow body shook, the life losing force in his veins. Ben replaced the coverlet.

“Who did this to you?”

Sheeble’s face screwed up. “His connivin’, belly-stabbin’ lordship.”

“Lord Styles or Crispin?”

“ ’Tweren’t Crispin. ’Fraid of his own shadow, that one.” He coughed, sending another trickle of blood along his chin. Ben took up a corner of the blanket and wiped the stain away.

“Lord Styles hired you to load the girls aboard ship in secret here in London, then to make certain they arrived in the East Indies, is that correct?”

Sheeble’s eyes closed.

“You may as well tell me,” Ben said. “You will die very shortly anyway. A confession will place the blame where it is most merited. Lord Styles will be punished for murdering you.”

The man’s eyes slid open a crack, but it cost him effort.

“Went over there in ’nineteen.”

“To Madras? Crispin met the girl on that trip?”

Sheeble’s thin lips twisted. “Didn’t know they was all below until halfway there. Then we had him.”

No wonder so many girls had perished, stored in the hold like cargo aboard a slave ship.

“Why English girls? Why take them to India?”

“He don’t like our boys consortin’ with them womens over there. Got to keep ’em apart to rule ’em right. Ev’rybody knows that.”

English brides for Company men and soldiers. No Indian wives like Ben’s mother. No family connections. No . . . “advantage,” as Styles had put it.

“Lord Styles was not on that journey to Madras two years ago. How exactly did he blackmail Lord Crispin?”

“My idea.” Sheeble hacked again. This time he was silent for an extended minute. His eyes did not open when he spoke, and his voice rasped. “Thought his lordship’d give me half for finding a bloke to sign the shippin’ papers, ’stead of him.” He spoke with obvious difficulty. “Only gave me fi-five percent, the bum Turk.”

“Why did he stab you tonight?”

“So’s I wouldn’t tell you what’s I just did.”

“You intended to tell me all of this before?”

“Crispin was gettin’ cold feet.” He coughed, a liquid sound. “Thought I’d get me another hundred before the game was up.”

“You imagined that I would pay you for information. Why me?”

A weary leer curved Sheeble’s gray lips. “Not too bright, are ye, gov’ner? That’s bum coves for ye, struttin’ around thinkin’ nobody knows nothin’ but them.”

“Lord Styles hid his involvement in this trade behind Crispin’s signature then ownership of the vessel, threatening loss of the girl then exposure to the authorities if Crispin refused.”

Sheeble’s brow puckered, his breathing labored.

“Have you access to documents that implicate Lord Styles in the business?”

“Nothin’. Kep’—” A jolt shook his chest. “Kep’ them all hisself.”

Which meant Ben could find them eventually. But he was not interested in turning his old friend over to the authorities. Not yet.

He placed his hand upon the sailor’s arm.

“Jonas, you will indeed die very soon. What you have done now, telling me this, may go some way toward paving your path more fortuitously in the beyond. I hope so, for your sake. For mine, I thank you.”

Sheeble’s eyes opened again, filled with fear.

Ben waited, not removing his hand, for some time until the life eventually slid from the fretful eyes. Then he closed them, drew the blanket over Sheeble’s brow, and left the stall.

Sully glanced around him curiously, peering into the stall. “ ’S’he dead, sir?”

Ben nodded.

The former dockworker folded his arms across his bulky chest. “Gave him the thumbscrews before he knocked off, I’ll wager.”

“Not tonight, Sully. I am feeling merciful.” Merciful. Staggered. Dizzy with certainty he could not yet fully comprehend. Humbled. And above all impatient to return to the woman who caused this unprecedented state in him. “If he has family, return him to them. If not—”

“The beggars’ cemetery.” Sully shook his head regretfully. “You be treating him better than he treated other folks in life.”

“We can only hope to be judged not by our sins, but by our judges’ compassion,” Ben said quietly. She loved him. She had always loved him. And it made him want to be merciful, forgiving as she had been to him despite how he had hurt her, as even now she was still merciful to Marcus Crispin, who had used her.

Ben’s shoulders prickled. He had learned a great deal from Octavia about honesty and the tragic futility of lies. He suspected he had quite a great deal more to learn of compassion. But he would not waste those lessons on her former fiancée.

“Have you found Lord Crispin yet?” he said, moving toward the exit to the street.

“Yessir,” Sully replied. “He’s back at his rooms. I was coming to tell you when this happened. Thought it might be more important.”

“Fine. Maintain a watch on him.” He would deal with Crispin soon. But tonight he had other business. He pushed open the door and crossed the street. Candlelight flickered through cracks in draperies in the upper windows of Hauterive’s.

“Milord.” A thick-muscled footman bowed and stepped back to allow him entry. From the gaming chamber a woman’s laughter tripped—sultry, inebriated. But Styles would not be playing at the tables tonight, not after what he had just done. Ben turned toward the parlor.

Styles lounged in a chair by the hearth, an empty glass hanging from the tips of his fingers, his gaze upon Ben as he entered. Swathed in imported silks and brocades, the chamber boasted only a handful of patrons at this late hour. By now most had either gone to their beds, to someone else’s, or upstairs. The décor may have altered, but the purpose of this club so many blocks from St. James’s never did.

Ben moved across the parlor, gesturing for a footman to bring him a drink, and lowered to the chair opposite the baron.

“I stopped by your house today. Your people said you had gone into the country.”

Styles twirled the glass between his fingers. “My business there was brief.” He assessed Ben, his blue eyes clear. “What brings you here in the middle of the night, Ben? Does the fair Miss Pierce fail to please, after all?”

Ben’s blood chilled. He pasted a confiding grin on his lips.

“Still following my flirtations, old friend? How curiously flattering.”

“I saw you leaving her house the night before last, before that route at Savege’s. Rather late for callers, I would say. And you seemed somewhat distracted.”

Ben received the glass from the footman.

“I have business with St. John Pennworthy. Noisome arrangement.” He lifted the brandy to his lips.

“Convenient, I should say, in your pursuit of the lady.”

“No pursuit there. Merely appreciation of a beautiful woman.” He sipped then set the glass on the table. “Now that the mystery of the fire at the hunting box is solved, I find I have more leisure to enjoy the simple pleasures of life—shooting on my property, admiring lovely females, sharing a moment of calm after midnight with an old friend.”

“The fire?” Flame-light glinted off Styles’s gilt hair and across his face, casting shifting shadows. “I did not know there was a mystery to be solved there.”

Ben leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees.

“At the time, I ignored the cause of the fire. I assumed it was an accident. But, do you know, Walker, I think it preyed upon me. I did not realize quite how greatly until I finally addressed it.”

“And what did you find?”

“I spoke with Andy, the old groom at the cottage, the only survivor of that night. You would not remember that, of course.” He looked into the fire. “But Andy did. We talked at some length and I am satisfied with what he told me. I feel I know everything I must now to move on.” He brought his gaze back to Styles. The other man’s face was hard.

“I am glad for you.”

“Thank you.” Ben stood.

“Leaving so soon?” Styles came to his feet. “Why not remain? Ladies Carmichael and Nathans are both in the drawing room now. Either one, I suspect, would be glad to see you here. After all, enjoying the simple pleasures does not preclude partaking of the more satisfying ones.”

Ben grinned and shook his head. “Too complicated. I am not interested in becoming involved in that sort of game.”

“Or perhaps you are simply too distracted elsewhere to appreciate such bounty? Are you certain the fair Miss Pierce does not command your attention more than you care to admit?”

Here it was upon a silver salver for Ben, a threat meant to make him fear, a pointed addendum to the anonymous note he had sent. Styles could no more than suspect his involvement with Octavia. But suspicion might be enough.

He must wait for his old friend to confess voluntarily. He could not risk making his own business public enough to assure Styles’s public condemnation. But clearly Styles would not surrender easily. He still expected to win. Members of the old English aristocracy always did, no matter the odds.

“Why this encouragement, Walker? Haven’t you faith in my initiative any longer?”

“Rather, a suspicion that you are limiting yourself unnecessarily.” There was no warmth in his voice, no fellow feeling or raillery. They both knew of what they were speaking. Ben had only to wait out his rival, to not be the one to flinch first.

“A useful reminder,” he said with a thoughtful nod. “Thank you, my friend.” He headed toward the drawing room, Styles behind him just as years ago when nights such as this had been both a game and a penance to Ben. Now it was neither, but the safety of the woman he loved. If Styles needed proof of his disinterest in Octavia, he would provide it. And tomorrow, when she no longer rested in the safety of his house, she would still be safe because Styles would no longer believe he could use her to hurt him.

He paused at the drawing room door. Priscilla Nathans’s emerald gaze snapped up, sharp with instant calculation through the haze of cheroot smoke and insufficient candlelight. At another table, Abigail Carmichael hung upon the back of a gentleman’s chair, her expensive dress revealing a deep bosom and her stunning face mottled with drink. Her fogged gaze rose to his. Ben lifted a hand and gestured, a mere indolent flick of his fingers. But the beautiful widow responded, moving to him without hesitation and tucking her hand around his arm.

“You called, my lord?” She batted thick lashes and clung. Her eyes did not focus.

Ben cast Styles a slight grin and drew the lady toward the stairs to the upper story. He did not look back to see if his ruse had the intended effect.

The retiring chambers had been redecorated in the past seven years too, but Ben noticed little save the paper and pen on the dressing table. He poured a glass of ruby liquid from a carafe and Lady Carmichael drank greedy mouthfuls while he undressed her to her shift. He laid her on the bed then turned to his more pressing task.

“Come now, Doreé,” she slurred. “It has been far too long. No more making me wait.”

“A moment, my dear.” The brief note written, he went into the corridor and gave it into the hands of a footman along with a guinea.

“Make certain he has this before he leaves his house or receives any callers in the morning, and you will be well rewarded.”

“Yes, my lord.” Face eager, the servant hurried off. Ben returned to the bedchamber. Sparing a glance for the unconscious figure sprawled atop the mattress, he went to the window. Within two hours it would be dawn. Before that he would be gone from this place of loneliness and unquenchable thirst and return to the woman who made all of it seem like a distant bad dream. He settled into the chair at the dressing table to wait.