The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (16 page)

“Someone provide Lord Weston with a glass,” Sir Arthur commanded, gesturing toward the bottle. “We all need a little fortification right now.”

Sarah rose from the upholstered settee and crossed to her father. “Of course,” she said simply, taking the bottle from the table.

Marcus ran a weary hand over his stubbled chin, wincing as he realized how mortified Sully would be over his appearance. In fact, he was surprised Sarah’s mother had allowed him into her drawing room.

Sarah
. He’d used her Christian name for the first time that day.

He supposed there was a perfectly good explanation for using such familiarity. Death was never easy, especially for those inexperienced with such things. And the death of a child? Marcus counted himself lucky to have never borne witness to such a crime.

Until today.

Given more time, he would have taken better care with Sarah after discovering her on the sand. Perhaps he should have been gentler, less forceful, but his instinct to protect had demanded he remove her from the scene immediately. Her tears and grief had stirred a possessiveness that, even now, he refused to regret. She was safe here in her father’s home, and that was all that mattered.

His brooding gaze followed her as she walked the
length of the room to a rosewood serving table. Wordlessly she poured him a glass, and then crossed to where he sat.

Marcus looked up into her face as she handed him the drink, her freshly scrubbed skin and pale blue gown fading for a moment, replaced by a swift mental image of her kneeling on the beach. The sight was seared into his memory—her tangled auburn curls teased by the morning breeze, her breeches wet from the driving tide. The mixture of terror and disbelief on her face.

“Lord Weston?”

Marcus blinked and realized he was now staring at the glass of brandy. The hand holding the glass belonged to Sarah.

He looked for a second time at her, relieved that it was not the Sarah from the beach who met his gaze. “Miss Tisdale,” he responded belatedly, taking the glass. “Thank you.”

She nodded as though she understood. Marcus assumed she believed he was rattled by the boy’s death. And he was, to be sure. But even more, he was concerned for Sarah.

Marcus had half expected her to have retreated within herself, her emotions tamped down and all vulnerability safely encased in her usual confidence and self-possession.

But he was troubled to see the fragility still in her anxious gaze.

He suspected their relationship would never be the same after today, but as he looked about at those gathered in the drawing room, he realized that such a line of thought would have to wait.

He sipped the brandy slowly, savoring the liquor’s burn as it slid smoothly down his throat, thankful for the distraction. “Sir Arthur, this has been a most disturbing day for your family,” he began.

As the highest-ranking man in the county, he had
every right to involve himself in the necessary inquiry into the boy’s death, despite Lady Tisdale’s polite if frosty insistence that a man such as he surely had more important things to concern himself with. Even she could not deny the Errant Earl.

Parish constable Thaddeus Pringle, a small, wiry man with graying sideburns, had been summoned and now sat next to Sir Arthur. He pushed absentmindedly at the thick spectacles propped precariously on the end of his narrow nose.

The constable had proven himself useful on the beach, being the first to mention the bruising about the boy’s neck. He’d aided admirably in removing the boy from the rocks, his strength belying his small stature.

“Mr. Pringle, has the boy’s family been made aware of the situation?” Marcus asked, grimacing as his leg began to throb.

The question caught Pringle stifling a yawn with his closed fist. “They have, my lord. They’re anxious to have the boy’s body.” Pringle paused, looking apologetically at Lady Tisdale and Sarah for mentioning such a thing. “For burial purposes, you see.”

Marcus stretched his leg out, the throbbing growing immediately worse before abating to a dull, insistent ache. “Yes, of course. I’ll see that my valet makes the arrangements.”

Jasper’s body had been carried to Lulworth Castle for safekeeping. Sully was, at that very moment, performing a thorough examination of the boy’s corpse in the hopes that something might appear that would help with the case.

And so it begins
, Marcus thought, realizing it would be necessary to take control by
any
means necessary if he was to gain ground.

Manipulation was not a game Marcus enjoyed, though the Corinthians were trained to be deadly precise.
Judging from the day’s events, Nigel knew more about the smugglers than he’d revealed in the past.

And while Marcus doubted that Sir Arthur had anything to do with the emeralds, he suspected the man would, if necessary, tell any falsehood to keep his son safe. As would, most assuredly, Sarah.

His gaze skimmed lightly over the family, knowing that he would ultimately expose and potentially destroy them if Nigel was tied to the jewels. The dull throb in his leg suddenly traveled directly to his heart.

Marcus took another sip of the brandy and closed his eyes, every emotion rebelling against this course of action.

“Mr. Pringle,” Marcus began, “I believe you questioned the nature of Jasper’s death, did you not?”

The constable hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with Marcus’s question. “Are you referring to the bruising, my lord?”

“Yes, about the boy’s neck,” Marcus confirmed, watching Sarah from beneath half-lowered eyelids. “What do you make of it?”

Sarah’s eyes widened and she turned in her seat to look directly at Pringle.

The constable pushed his spectacles up his long nose and cleared his throat. “If I had to say …” He paused, pressing the wire nosepiece though there was nowhere farther for it to go. “Well, I suspect the boy was strangled.”

Lady Tisdale let out a dramatic gasp and all the attention in the room suddenly concentrated on her—except for Marcus’s. He watched as Sarah remained silent, though her gaze next darted to her brother.

“Indeed,” Marcus said in a low, shocked tone. “Nigel,” he said, setting his glass down with an audible thud. “Clearly the men you’ve been dealing with are far more dangerous than we were led to believe.”

It was the constable’s turn to be shocked, his small body nearly vibrating at Marcus’s words. “What’s this?” he asked gruffly, discernibly upset over the revelation.

“I don’t know,” Nigel began, his tone anxious as he stood up from his chair, his movements jerky. “It was all in good fun—”

“Jasper Wilmington is dead, boy!” Pringle interrupted, raising his voice.

“This wasn’t the plan. We were—”

“Plan?” Pringle sputtered, his anger growing. “What plan?”

Nigel began to shift back and forth from one foot to the other, his face anguished. “That’s not what I meant,” he pleaded, cringing when Pringle rose as well.

Marcus waited as the frenzy grew. Lady Tisdale shrieked as Pringle advanced on Nigel, which sent her husband flying from his seat.

Marcus knew timing was everything in such a situation. He watched as Sarah maintained her composure though the whole of her family looked to be tottering on the edge of hysteria.

Now
, he thought, as Sarah rose from her chair, a desperate look in her eyes.

“If everyone would please sit down,” he said in a commanding tone, rising to his feet.

All obeyed, save for Sarah, who crossed the room and joined her brother.

Marcus eyed her with compassion, making his concern for her—and, more important, Nigel—apparent.

Her tense posture eased ever so slightly at his silent support.

Then Marcus turned to the constable, adopting a stern bearing. “Pringle, the boy can hardly be expected to endure questioning at this time. Please go to Lulworth Castle and offer your help to my valet.”

It was as if Marcus was a puppetmaster. All four of the Tisdales turned in unison to angrily stare at the man.

Pringle repositioned his spectacles once more before clearing his throat. “Yes, my lord,” he replied in a thin voice, rising from his chair. “But the boy will have to be—”

“Of course,” Marcus interrupted, gesturing toward the door. “We will speak this afternoon.”

Pringle nodded quickly and left.

Nigel slumped into his chair, the lack of sleep and the weight of his friend’s death clearly catching up with him.

Marcus eyed the boy with concern. “I suggest that Nigel retire to bed. I’ll return to question him further this afternoon, and in the meantime I’ll join Mr. Pringle to ensure Jasper is taken care of properly.”

Tisdale nodded somberly while his wife stifled a cry. Sarah stood next to Nigel, her hand on his bowed shoulder.

As Marcus made his way toward the door she reached out and gently grasped his arm.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

The sincerity in her eyes made Marcus want to hit something. Anything. As long as it was hard enough to break bone.

Better that than his heart.

A funeral for an aged fisherman or kindly grandmother was not an unusual occurrence in Lulworth. But Jasper’s was far from usual, the faces of those surrounding Sarah in the Church of the Holy Trinity filled with shock and sorrow as they stared at the boy’s casket near the front of the sanctuary.

She inched along the hard pew until she was securely pressed against Nigel, but her brother hardly seemed to notice. His somber gaze was fastened on the vicar behind the pulpit.

He won’t find what he needs there
, Sarah thought to herself regretfully.

No one would.

All of the reassurance in the world would not bring back Jasper.

Nor would it provide any insight into why such a heartbreaking death happened at all.

Sarah’s gaze skimmed the gathering until she found Lord Weston, his blond hair capturing a single shaft of sunlight as it slanted through the simple stained-glass window.

He’d insisted upon being present during Nigel’s interview with the constable. Her brother had been terrified. But Lord Weston’s calm demeanor had set Nigel more at ease. It was clear that Nigel had been much more forthcoming than he would have been if Mr. Pringle had been allowed to pursue the interrogation on his own. The
constable meant well, but he lacked Lord Weston’s natural compassion, and it was only when the earl had quietly assured Nigel that he believed him innocent of all wrongdoing that the boy finally began to speak, spilling forth a surprising amount of information.

First there had been a list of names. A lengthy list. Lord Weston did not move a muscle as Nigel rattled them off, but Mr. Pringle had literally jumped from his seat and begun to pace, his wiry frame quivering with excitement. His questions had grown more pointed, and his tone harder. Nigel’s eyes had widened with fear, but then Lord Weston interceded again, this time with a reassuring hand on Nigel’s arm. Sarah, watching from the corner with her parents, had seen her brother visibly relax.

“Page forty-six in your hymnals.”

Sarah reached for the hymnbook at the vicar’s direction and opened it to the proper page, holding the book lower to share with Nigel.

The low, sad strains of the hymn began and the mourners’ voices lifted in song. Sarah attempted to avert her eyes from Jasper’s mother, but it was impossible to look away as Mrs. Wilmington stoically sang through her tears.

It was all so senseless. They weren’t bad boys. They had just been looking for adventure. And someone—

Sarah took a deep breath and tried to calm herself as a burst of fury rolled through her.

Someone had killed Jasper. And that someone should pay.

She glanced at Lord Weston once again.

Perhaps, she thought, swallowing past the tightness in her throat, she was not helpless, after all.

Lord Weston’s rank, his wealth and power—and the very fact that he was a man—would allow him access to people and places that a woman could never secure on her own.

His interest in the boy’s death was obvious enough.
And over the past few days, Sarah had sensed in him a desire for more from Lulworth, something she could help him with if only he’d agree.

If she could convince him that she was essential to his success, they might just be able to track down the individual responsible for Jasper’s murder.

The hymn ended, signaling the close of the service. The casket was carried down the aisle, followed by the vicar, then Lord Weston, then Jasper’s family.

Lord Weston nodded as he passed and Sarah inclined her head solemnly in acknowledgment.

Then it was the Tisdale family’s turn. Sarah stepped out into the aisleway, standing aside to let Nigel join her.

She took his hand and they followed their parents, moving past pews filled with mourning villagers and out through the heavy oaken doors, leaving the dim church for the mid-morning sunlight and blue sky.

Sarah searched the stone steps and churchyard for Lord Weston, concerned that he may have already left.

Nigel’s hand slipped from hers, drawing Sarah’s attention.

“I’ll just say hello to Clive,” he said in explanation, nodding toward the boy, who stood near the vicar.