My Wicked Marquess (33 page)

He flashed a grin at her, then jogged up the stairs to escape, she suspected, the controlled chaos of the party preparations.

Daphne watched him with a vague uneasiness until he had disappeared into the upper floor. She could not quite put her finger on it, but she had learned to read her husband well enough to detect the subtle change that came over him whenever he received a communiqué from that taciturn old Scot.

Doing her best to shrug off her inexplicable misgivings, she decided to take a moment from her party preparations just to steal a quick peek at her new letter from Carissa.

She still had a hundred things to do to get ready, but both girls missed each other deeply. Daphne felt guilty, as though she had abandoned her, for she knew Carissa was having a hard time of it, left in London to deal with her obnoxious cousins without Daphne as an ally.

While the servants carried more chairs and a large floral arrangement into the dining room, Daphne got out of the way to read her letter, wishing Carissa could have been at the party tonight. It would have made it so much more fun,
plus, her friend's presence would have helped to calm her nerves over her first occasion of playing Max's high-ranking hostess. She still sometimes felt that she had no idea of how a marchioness was supposed to act.

At any rate, she vowed to read only the first page of Carissa's letter, but she quickly saw that her friend had written in such a distressed state that she raced through the whole thing. With Daphne gone, Carissa's cousins had begun tormenting her with renewed vigor; worse, Carissa's newfound acquaintance with the scandalous Warrington and Falconridge had given the jealous harpies an easy source of new material. Their taunting and innuendos, Daphne could well imagine, would have jeopardized any girl's reputation.

Dire worry had gripped her by the time she got to the end. At once, she knew that either she had to invite Carissa to come to the estate for a holiday or return to London herself long enough to rescue her friend.

Distracted by her concern over Carissa, she desired a moment in Max's company to soothe her anxiousness and put her mind at ease. Hurrying upstairs to ask what he thought of the situation, quickly giving a few more directions to her staff along the way, she no longer needed the fingerpost sign to find the master suite.

Out of habit, she went in by the second door, which opened into her side of the master suite. The his-and-hers double bedchambers were connected by a little mirrored passageway with a closet and a hidden jewelry safe on one side, and a decadent Roman-style bath on the other, quite the miracle of modern innovation, with its marble columns framing the large nickel-plated tub, and already heated running water almost constantly available from the spigot.

It was extraordinarily quiet in their joined chambers.

She furrowed her brow and walked toward Max's room, wondering if he had not come up here, after all.

But then all of a sudden, she caught a whiff of what she could have sworn was brimstone, with a hint of vinegar, emanating from his end of their suite.

She paused, grimacing. The harsh, pungent odor made her eyes water. Already reaching her end of the little passageway, she started to ask what he was doing, then saw his reflection in the mirror, and stopped, staring in fleeting confusion.

Without going any farther, she could see him sitting on the edge of the bed, using a tiny eyedropper to place a few drops of some solution on the letter he had received from Virgil.

Daphne went no farther but held her breath, watching silently as Max replaced the eyedropper into a little vial of some solution, which she gathered was the source of that hideous smell. She felt a chilly draft and realized he had opened a window in his bedchamber to help disperse its unpleasant fumes.

Then he blew on the moistened letter, as if to dry the droplets he had placed on the sheet of paper. Her heart began to pound as he reread the letter with a new intensity, as though perceiving information previously hidden.
Invisible ink?
she thought in utter shock.

What on earth is going on?

If this were not astonishing enough, Daphne's eyes widened in deepening incredulity when she saw his hiding place. There was a small decorative niche in the wall by his bed, which usually held a vase. At the moment, it was a gaping hole in the wall.

Satisfied with his letter from London, Max now took it, along with the vial of mysterious liquid, and placed the items inside some sort of hollow hidden inside the wall. Sliding the little curved part of the niche back down, he clicked it into place, put the vase back where it belonged, then went and shut the window. She glimpsed his troubled expression as he passed by her line of sight.

Daphne quickly backed away from the passage between their bedchambers as something warned her not to let him see her there. She was in a state of shock.

What do I do? What on earth is he hiding from me?

With a houseful of guests expected in a few hours and
several dozen things still left to do, she realized she did not have the wherewithal to confront him right now. She did not want to start a fight just ahead of the local gentry arriving for her first effort as a married hostess.

She did not want all her neighbors coming in at the tail end of their first marital row, especially one that was sure to be apocalyptic in proportions. She shook her head, trembling with fury as she heard him leave his chamber by the matching door on the other side of the suite.

Leaning against the wall for a moment to try to collect her wits, she felt sick to her stomach to have confirmation of something she had sensed, but could never quite put her finger on—that Max was being less than open with her, as usual.

She felt like such a dupe! Living with him, waking, sleeping, eating, bathing with him, spending day and night together, and it had taken her a blasted month to catch on that there was a whole other side of her husband of which she had no inkling yet.

His betrayal of her trust felt like a stab in her heart. She had given him her all, and in return, he was making a mockery of her faith in him. A tremor of fury and fear rippled through her. What sort of dark business was he up to that he had to be so secretive? It must be bad—why else would he choose to conceal it?

Panic threatened to rise with her sudden sense of having no control whatsoever over her life, indeed, quite the opposite, of being entirely under
his
control, but she tamped it down, clinging to the strength that anger gave her instead.

A horse at bloody Tattersall's?
God, she wanted to hit him, shake that air of cool control right out of him, that liar. She looked around the corner of the passageway, wondering if she should go in there at once, rip open that hiding place, and find out what was going on.

She paused, listening as hard as she could for any sound of him returning. Instead, she did hear someone coming, but it couldn't be Max. The footsteps were too light and swift. Just then, there was a light knock at her bedchamber door, which already stood ajar.

“Yes?” she forced out.

A maid peeked in. “My lady, Chef Joseph asked if you would like to come down and give your opinion on the almond soup.”

God, she could barely force herself to focus on the dinner party preparations now, but somehow, she managed a nod. Pushing away from the wall, she put Carissa's letter back in her pocket and followed the maid back down to the kitchens, brooding on her next move all the way.

It might be nothing
, she tried to tell herself. As he was her lord and husband, was it not his male prerogative to withhold important information that was not considered part of a woman's domain?

But everything in her recoiled from her attempt to wave it off. She knew in her bones it was something big, and probably something deeply wicked, considering the lengths he had gone to, to keep her in the dark.

Resentment burned through her, all the sharper when she recalled how thoroughly he had investigated
her
before deciding to pursue her. To be sure, he had made a point of finding out everything he possibly could about her before deciding if she was right for him. In return, he had given her secrecy and deception. She shook her head to herself.

You lying, two-faced fiend.

Well, obviously, there was no point in confronting Max with his lies until she could find out for herself what exactly he was hiding. She couldn't believe he had done this to her, but why waste her breath asking for answers or demanding explanations?

Slick as he was, the Demon Marquess would merely lie again unless she had hard evidence to put in front of him. That smooth devil could talk his way out of anything. But this time, he had pushed her too far.

She was growing wise to him. If he liked underhanded dealings, he would get just that.

It was far more intelligent, she decided, to wait for an opportune moment to look inside that little hiding place herself. She dreaded to ponder what she might find, but for now,
she decided not to breathe a word or show any sign that she had finally caught on until she got a chance to see for herself exactly what was going on.

V
irgil had been scant on details, but apparently there had been another sighting of Drake.

As his team's Link, Max had received fresh orders to get to the Westwood estate without delay and finesse whatever information he could out of Lady Westwood, Drake's dear old mama.

His particular goal was to find out if the countess had received any communication from her supposedly dead son. It was feasible, after all, that Drake would want to spare his heartbroken mother any further mourning, considering he was alive.

Beyond that, Max knew very little. He would simply have to see what he might find when he got there. It wasn't more than a three-hour drive in the direction of London.

In the meanwhile, he would have to come up with some credible story to give his wife to explain his upcoming departure. All through their dinner party, Max let his calculating mind brew on how to proceed, even as he played the gracious host.

Being rather skilled at compartmentalizing different areas of his life, he was able to put tomorrow's mission aside for the moment—just as he had put aside his endless sense of guilt over lying to his beloved since their wedding day. He ignored it all with a will, focusing his attention on the
dinner party. He knew how much a success tonight meant to Daphne.

So far, it was all going smoothly.

As for Lady Rotherstone, Max thought she looked more gorgeous than ever tonight. He had never seen her wear red before, and the effect was stunning.

Now that she was a married woman, she seemed to enjoy experimenting with the bold colors that were generally considered inappropriate for debutantes.

Clad in a rose-red gown of taffeta with simple lines and short puffed sleeves, she wore her bright blond hair pinned up in a sleek and elegant coif, her frosty beauty at odds with her fiery gown.

She had a pearl choker around her neck and a rare touch of rouge on her lips as if to keep her pale complexion from being overwhelmed by the crimson she wore.

It was a dramatic and sophisticated look, and it made him want her in a new and urgent way. Max had thought her beautiful before, of course, wholesome and innocent, with her sunshine loveliness, but she seemed different tonight, like a young woman fully coming into her own as she adjusted to her new place in the world as his marchioness.

She displayed an expert charm with their guests, but showed a little less of her usual endearing warmth, in favor of a touch more confident authority.

The room resounded with conversation and laughter, and glowed with the brilliance of the candelabras. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, and in all, Max thought she had done a magnificent job with every detail of their dinner party.

The lavish courses were perfection, from the almond soup, pigeon pie, broiled salmon, leg of lamb, and plum pudding, just to name a few, to the roasted lobsters, oyster loafs, savory pheasant, and stewed pears.

The sweet course was delightful, especially the fanciful “hedgehog” on display in the middle of the table, with its blanched almond bristles. The carefully sculpted animal creation was spun from a concoction of egg whites, sugar, butter, and cream, Daphne explained to them all.

Its eyes and nose were made from little pieces of black licorice, and she thought their Chef Joseph a genius for his art. The guests regretted cutting into the hedgehog in order to eat it, but eagerness to taste it outweighed their guilt at destroying it, and sure enough, it turned out to be delicious.

Meanwhile, a colorful array of fruits and nuts, apricot puffs, biscuits, custards, and three different types of cheesecakes were passed round. At last, the ladies repaired to the drawing room for tea while the men remained at table to enjoy their port and sherry.

Max, however, was eager to rejoin Daphne. Separated by their respective places at the head and foot of a dining table that seemed nearly as long as a cricket pitch, he was missing his lady's company and feeling deprived of her conversation.

He refused to dwell too much on his guilt over the latest lie he'd have to tell her tomorrow. He knew his duty for the Order, and the trip would not take long.

He had to admit he had still not quite figured out how to handle the complexities of his double life from an emotional standpoint. His blood ran cold whenever he tried to imagine how Daphne would react if she were to hear the truth of his life story at this late date.

But even if Virgil would have permitted it, how could he come out with such revelations now, when he was already in it so deeply with her? He had only just barely convinced her to marry him in the first place.

If he told her the truth, she might regret ever agreeing to this, and then he risked losing her love. And if that happened, obviously, he would die. Or at least, to be sure, he would not want to live.

It was better, cleaner all around if she never knew, he thought, but the inner battle was tearing him apart.

He did his best to put the whole thing out of his mind. It was too late now to start telling her what he should have said months ago, but was neither then nor now at liberty to share.

With a deepening uneasiness gnawing at him, he told himself he would just have to be careful to keep the two main strands of his life from becoming tangled.

He could do this. He had lived this way for years, had he not? An expert liar, he had never had any trouble separating the truth of his inner self as an agent of the Order from his external mask as the drunken Grand Tourist.

Yet for the first time in his career, Max found himself beginning to resent his duty. Deeply.

It wasn't fair to have to live this way. And worse, in his gut, he was beginning to fear that he could be either a true husband or a solid agent, but not both.

He could not see himself ever shirking his duty for the Order. It was too deeply ingrained in him. Which meant that it was only a matter of time before his marriage, the newer claim on him, ran into serious trouble.

Maybe he shouldn't have hounded her so relentlessly to marry him, he thought. Maybe he should've spared her all this and chosen some other woman he could not love. Then again, he could not imagine his life without his darling Daphne. She was the most important person in the world to him. God, he would drive himself mad with all this. Best not to dwell on it. He had no choice but to lie, and besides, he did not want her dragged into all the Order's intrigue.

With a slight prompting, at last he managed to shepherd his male guests into the drawing room to rejoin their ladies. Before long, the whole company removed into the music room, where the ladies each began to entertain them, in turn, with their various musical talents.

Recalling what his father-in-law had told him about Daphne's love of playing the pianoforte with her mother years ago, he went out on a limb to suggest in front of all their guests that she take a turn and play for them.

She stared at him for a long moment, and then bowed her head like the model wife. “As you wish, my lord,” she murmured, but as she brushed past him on her way to the instrument, he thought he detected a hint of frost in her blue eyes.

She opened the hinged lid of the piano seat and took out some printed music, which she duly leaned above the keyboard. Taking her place at the pianoforte, she tentatively
touched a few keys, as though becoming reacquainted with a long-lost friend.

With a deep breath, she began to play.

It was a simple, soulful piece full of expression; Max recognized it as a pianoforte arrangement of a famous piece by Albinoni.

The haunting adagio filled the chamber with its sorrowful beauty, slow, but building in passion to a vaguely ominous crescendo.

Max furrowed his brow. What a bizarre choice for a dinner party, he mused. Maybe it was the only piece she knew. But, surely, after all the pains she had taken to create a pleasant atmosphere for their guests, this music changed the mood, to say the least.

It did not take Max long to realize this could be some sort of message. To him.

He stared at his wife as she played, feeling as though, in a way, he was seeing her for the first time.

Not in a thousand years could he have guessed at the depth of the feeling bottled up inside her. And it began to dawn on him that for all his careful research beforehand, there were perhaps still parts of Daphne he did not know.

Either he had finally asked the right question by requesting that she play, or she was merely ready now to share this part of herself, for reasons of her own.

The adagio and her unimagined passion in the playing left them all agog. After about eight minutes, her performance came to its resonating end.

The guests were silent for a few seconds, carried away in reverie, then Max began applauding for her as he held her in his stare, and everyone else followed suit.

“Oh, I say!”

“Quite affecting,” the guests exclaimed.

With her music ended, she looked up slowly from the piano as though she had just come through an ordeal. She met Max's gaze, and as the others continued to applaud and praise her unheralded talent, he walked over to her, offering his hand to help her rise.

On one hand, he was bursting with husbandly pride in her
talent, but on the other, he was wondering what the hell was going on.

“You are full of surprises, my lady,” he murmured as he assisted her up from the piano seat. “Any other secrets I should know about?”

“Not from me, my lord. And you?” She did not wait for his answer, but released his hand and glided away, returning to her guests like the perfect hostess.

Max was flummoxed.

It was curious that he could read strangers, but only now began to see that his beloved was just a few degrees shy of ignoring him.

Had he done something wrong? Perhaps she was merely concentrating on their guests. He had no doubt this night had been a nerve-racking experience for her. He knew it had been weeks in preparation.

Still, the revelation of her soulful performance put him in mind of one of the trapdoors inside Dante House—the turning bookcase in the drawing room, which could only be opened by playing a precise series of notes on the dusty old harpsichord in the middle of the room.

She stood a few feet away charming the local vicar and his wife. Max studied her with renewed fascination, though perhaps he should have been worried. All he knew was that the longer she kept him at arm's length, the more everything in him clamored for her.

She seemed to have erected some kind of invisible barrier between them, and though Max knew he had no room whatsoever to complain, he was not at all used to this, and did not like it.

For the briefest instant, he wondered if there was any chance she had seen something she ought not to see. Might she have stumbled across some stray detail of his role in the Order?

Oh, but that was impossible. He knew he had grown very comfortable with her, true, which Virgil had warned him to be wary of, but he was too experienced an agent to have done something careless.

He could not imagine that he had blown his cover with his
own wife. It had to be something else. Whatever the cause of her almost imperceptible alteration in her demeanor, he wanted his usual Daphne back.

Immediately.

“Your father told me you used to love music, but I had no idea you could play so beautifully,” he said when they were in their room several hours later, taking off their formal clothes after the last guests had gone.

It was two hours after midnight.

“I am glad I can still surprise you, my lord.” She was sitting at her vanity, drawing off her long satin gloves, while he walked in from his adjoining chamber, untying his cravat.

Tugging it loose, he went over to her side and gazed down at her for a moment. “Daphne, are you all right?”

“Yes, why?”

“You seem…distracted,” he said warily as he moved behind her and took over the task of helping her unlatch the clasp of her necklace.

She dropped her gaze, holding up her hair so it would not catch on the strand of pearls. Max studied her in the mirror while he waited for her answer.

“Actually,” she said at length, “I'm worried about Carissa.”

“Carissa?” He frowned as he put the unfastened necklace in her hand. He had forgotten about her friend's letter. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“Her cousins are being unkind again. I am thinking of going to London to give her some moral support. You wouldn't mind, would you, darling?”

Max thought he detected a sharp undertone in her cool-toned question. “It's rather late in the year for London. Why not just invite her here?”

“I can go to London if I want to. It's not as though I am your prisoner here, am I?” She sent him an unflappable smile, but he read a different story in her blue eyes.

He gave her a chiding frown, concealing his deepening awareness of her tension. “Of course you're not my prisoner, darling. Are you getting bored of country life? Or maybe you're just getting bored of me.”

She eyed him askance, then set her earrings aside with a
shrug. “Now that the dinner party's done, I don't know what I shall do with myself.”

Behind her, Max leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of her against her cherrywood vanity. “If you really want to go back to Town to see your friends, my love, I will take you there myself, if that would make you happy. However, you'll have to wait a few days until I get back.”

“From where?” She looked at him in surprise in the mirror, clearly unsatisfied with his answer.

“I have to go up the Gorge to pay a visit to the ironworks. I think I told you I own a controlling share of the company.”

“Controlling, yes,” she murmured.

“Now that the war is over, there's not much call for cannons. The men who run the factory want to show me some ideas for what can be manufactured there instead.”

“I see.”

“It won't take more than a couple of days. I'll be there and back before you even miss me. When I return, then we can go to London.”