The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (19 page)

The Wilmingtons were not the poorest of Lulworth’s residents. Their snug cottage, located just at the end of a rutted lane, was small, to be sure, the family of a fisherman simply glad to have a roof without leaks and fresh fish for the table.

But as Sarah reined in Buckingham, she could not help but think of the happiness that had once inhabited the house. A small impromptu Twelfth Night celebration last year when she’d brought a goose had truly been one of the most enjoyable times she’d spent in the company of her fellow villagers.

She couldn’t have known the sadness that would befall the family, nor imagine the emptiness that now filled the once-cozy home.

“Are you all right?”

Lord Weston had somehow passed Sarah, though she hadn’t been aware of it.

She quietly clucked at the gelding and he picked up his pace. “Tell me …” Sarah reined Buckingham next to Marcus’s Thoroughbred. “Is this always so hard?”

He looked into her eyes, confusion in his. “Excuse me?”

“Comforting those who’ve lost so much.”

Lord Weston turned to look at the cottage down the lane. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t answer you. This is the first time I’ve done such a thing.”

“Really?” Sarah asked quietly. “You’ve proven to be
quite a comfort to the Wilmingtons. I assumed you had some experience with such things. Perhaps while in Scotland?”

“Dealings with the clansmen were left to my father. They hardly wanted my or my mother’s pity,” he replied, the simplicity of his delivery belying the blow of his words.

Sarah reached across and placed a hand on his arm. “Their loss is Lulworth’s gain, my lord.”

“I’m not certain of that,” he answered in a low tone, his eyes shuttering once more.

“I am,” Sarah offered as his hand reached to cover hers. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought that perhaps the man had taken her words to heart.

Small steps
, she assured herself.
Small steps
.

“Well, from your lips to God’s ears, Miss Tisdale,” he drawled, taking her hand from his arm and setting it lightly on her horse’s reins. “Though with you on my side, I don’t know that I’ll be in need of divine intervention.”

Sarah gave a small smile in response, and they walked their horses on, soon reaching the cottage, where a small gig and horse stood. The dappled gray horse took in their arrival with mild interest, and then returned to munching on the long blades of grass that jutted out between the rocks in a well-worn path.

“Why, that is Hercules, Mrs. Rathbone’s horse, I believe.”

Lord Weston swung out of the saddle, knotted his reins through the iron ring set into a rough post, and walked to Sarah’s mount. “You do not sound surprised to find him—or Mrs. Rathbone—here.”

Sarah raised a brow and gave him a pert look. “What, precisely, might you be suggesting?”

He caught her waist and lifted her from the saddle,
lowering her slowly down the length of him. “You are determined, Miss Sarah Tisdale.”

Sarah began to perspire. “You’ve no idea, my lord.”

The cottage door opened and Mrs. Rathbone appeared, an empty wicker basket in her hands. “Sarah, so good of you to come,” she said in greeting, turning her attention to Lord Weston.

He released Sarah’s waist and bowed. “Mrs. Rathbone.”

The woman smiled hesitantly and adjusted her poke bonnet, clearly pleased that the earl remembered her. “Lord Weston.”

Sarah unclasped the silver buckles on her worn leather saddlebag. “Yes, well, Lord Weston insisted that we pay our respects and offer our assistance. Quite thoughtful of him, would you not agree?”

Though Mrs. Rathbone was a confidante of Lenora’s, her amiable nature always prompted her to have a good opinion of everyone until proven otherwise.

Besides, she was, by far, the busiest gossip to be found in the county.

Yesterday, when Sarah had overheard Mrs. Rathbone speaking of her plans to visit the Wilmingtons, she’d hooted with delight—then been obliged to blame her outburst on Titus having learned to roll over. Which he could not actually do, but the women had returned to their talk, all the same.

“Yes indeed. Very good of you, Lord Weston,” the woman agreed genuinely as she untied Hercules.

Sarah retrieved the food for the Wilmingtons, stifling a smile of success.

“Please, allow me,” Lord Weston offered, taking the reins from Mrs. Rathbone and assisting her onto the bench seat.

She settled her skirts about her and took the reins
back. “Lord Weston, will we see you at the Bennington Ball?”

“I wouldn’t think of missing it, Mrs. Rathbone,” he answered, reaching for her hand and landing a chaste kiss on her kid glove.

“Excellent,” she murmured, then gently nudged Hercules forward down the rutted road.

Lord Weston offered Sarah his arm and led her up the path to the rough-hewn door. “I suppose you’re rather proud of yourself?”

“Obviously,” she replied simply, and then rapped firmly on the thick panel.

The door opened slowly, its weight scraping against the worn stone floor within. Emily Wilmington’s solemn face appeared, her tight-set mouth loosening into a welcoming, though sad, smile when she saw Sarah. “Miss Tisdale.”

“Mrs. Wilmington, may we come in?” Lord Weston asked politely.

The woman looked confused for a moment, then craned her neck to peer behind Sarah, giving a start of surprise at the sight of him. “My lord, I didn’t see you there,” she apologized, bobbing an inelegant curtsy in her serviceable brown dress. “Please, won’t you both come in?”

She opened the door as wide as it would go, revealing almost the entire interior of the cottage.

Sarah stepped over the threshold, noting the disarray in the usually neat home. Clothing in need of mending overflowed a wicker basket near a washstand. Dishes from the morning meal still lay piled atop the wooden table. A few logs sat on the unswept hearth.

Sarah nearly gaped at the scene, so unlike what she’d witnessed on every other visit to the cottage. She caught herself barely in time and managed a smile instead.

“I beg your pardon for the untidiness,” Emily said,
closing the door behind them and shutting out what little light there was to be had. “I’m afraid everything has got away from me of late.”

“It is we who must beg your pardon for arriving unannounced, Mrs. Wilmington,” Sarah said. She held up the hamper. “We brought you some food.”

Mrs. Wilmington blinked, her eyes glistening. She’d been crying when they’d arrived. Sarah suddenly felt like an interloper, trespassing on someone else’s pain. It didn’t seem to matter that she was there to pay her respects.

Mrs. Wilmington just stared at them for a moment, and then, as if a tiny piece of her awoke, she gave a little jolt and hurried to the table to make room for Sarah’s hamper. “Thank you,” she said, only allowing her voice to break when her back was turned. “I greatly appreciate the kindness.”

It took Sarah a moment to realize she was referring to the food. An awful silence hung over the room, and Sarah instinctively began to fill it with idle chatter. “Of course,” she said. “it is the least we could do, under the circumstances …”

She swallowed. That had not been the right thing to say. “I do hope you enjoy the chicken,” she began again, setting the hamper down, “and two pies.”

Mrs. Wilmington began to scurry about the room, trying to tidy up, filling her arms with shirts and utensils, crockery and the like, until the pile mounted as high as her chin.

“Allow me,” Lord Weston said gently, reaching for every last item in her arms and stacking each efficiently in his own. He walked to the corner near the stove, where a large basket sat empty, and slowly lowered the things in, covering the lot of it with a wool blanket that had been slung over a rocking chair. “I may not be the most skilled when it comes to housework, but I am very
creative.” He smiled, his twinkling eyes inviting Mrs. Wilmington to join him.

Her shoulders relaxed a bit, her mouth faintly turning up at the corners. “I wish someone would have showed me that trick years ago, my lord.”

“Ah, there you see—we men do come in handy on occasion,” he declared, dusting his hands together as though he’d just finished a hard day’s labor.

Mrs. Wilmington gestured for him to take a worn but respectable upholstered chair near the hearth. “May I offer you a cup of tea?”

“Mrs. Wilmington, allow me to put the kettle on,” Sarah urged, gently placing her hands on the woman’s shoulders and steering her toward the chair opposite Lord Weston.

He stood politely, taking his seat once Mrs. Wilmington was comfortably settled in her chair. “And where is Mr. Wilmington today?”

Sarah had wondered the very same, surprised that the man had not returned from the day’s fishing.

“At the Boot, I suppose,” Mrs. Wilmington said cheerlessly. “It’s been hard for him here—without Jasper.”

Sarah set the water to boil, and then opened the calico curtains wider to allow more light from the small windows to spill into the cottage. “And hard for you as well,” she offered consolingly.

“Yes,” Mrs. Wilmington agreed, her jaw tensing as she strained to control her emotions. “But it’s different for Jacob. He feels … Well, he thinks he could have prevented it, you see.”

The kettle let out a low whistle, demanding Sarah’s attention.

“It must be very difficult—for both of you, of course. But it is unlikely that your husband could have prevented Jasper’s death,” Lord Weston said gently.

Sarah willed herself to remain silent, deftly preparing the cups as she waited for Mrs. Wilmington’s response.

“No,” Mrs. Wilmington said, shaking her head with exhausted sorrow. “Something had changed. Jasper told his father nearly a month past about this new crew of smugglers—all fancy and French.”

When she didn’t say anything more right away, Sarah stepped forward to hand her a cup of tea. Mrs. Wilmington nodded as she took it, then looked down at the steam rising from the surface. “Jasper said they were making people nervous,” she continued, still not drinking. “Making demands.”

Sarah handed a cup to Lord Weston, then pulled up a chair and sat next to Mrs. Wilmington, her own cup left neglected on the table. “Demands?” she murmured, prompting the woman to continue.

“Smugglers in these parts, as you know, Miss Tisdale, don’t usually care who knows what they’re hauling. But this lot …” Mrs. Wilmington sighed, her somber face troubled.

Sarah leaned forward, ready to press further, but Lord Weston quietly cleared his throat, giving her a look of warning when Sarah glanced his way.

“They were different?” Lord Weston asked, sipping his tea and appearing only politely interested.

Mrs. Wilmington began to stir her tea. “They were. Very particular about who opened the goods.” Her spoon began to move more quickly, and by the time she spoke again, the tea was splashing from her cup. “Young Michael Higgins’s curiosity got the best of him one night and he busted open one of the boxes when he thought no one was looking. Got a sound beating that night, he did.”

Sarah finally picked up her cup from the table. “Did Michael tell anyone what was in the box?”

“He told Jasper,” she answered, her tone changing. “Jewels and coin enough to ‘fill the sea’ is what he said.”

“Do you believe Jasper may have tried to see the treasure for himself?” Lord Weston asked, a mixture of authority and acceptance in his voice.

Mrs. Wilmington finally took a drink of her tea, her eyes squeezing shut as she did so. “I think he did more than just look—if I know my boy, he tried to take a bit of it for himself.

“Jacob told him to leave well enough alone. But Jasper was never one for listening. And now he’s dead.”

She stood abruptly and carried her cup to the crude dresser.

“Mrs. Wilmington,” Lord Weston began, rising to join her. “Did Jasper ever mention any names? Someone you and Jacob may not have recognized, outside of the Frenchmen?”

She set her cup and saucer into a washtub then took Lord Weston’s from his outstretched hand and added it to the water as well. “Only one—a nobleman from the next county over. Fordham was the name. Jacob asked around about the man but no one knew anything.”

“I see.”

“Lord Weston, I didn’t tell the constable any of this. It was clear he’d decided that Jasper was guilty of something—as if his death was—”

She stopped, her earlier anxiety and fear visibly returning as her shoulders sagged.

“We’ll find your son’s killer, I assure you, Mrs. Wilmington,” Marcus promised with quiet authority. “You have my word.”

“He’s of no use to us now,” Marcus said bitterly, staring down at Fordham’s corpse.

The innkeeper let out a loud belch. “Oh, Christ, not another one. I’ll send for the constable.”

Marlowe pushed the man out into the dimly lit corridor, dropping several coins into the unshaved brute’s hand. “Give us fifteen minutes, won’t you?”

“Fifteen minutes and not a minute more—I’ve got paying customers in need of rooms.”

Marlowe slammed the door in the man’s face and turned back to Marcus.

“No need to be rude,” the innkeeper bellowed as he trudged off down the hall.

“Sod off,” Marlowe replied.

Marcus shot his fellow Corinthian a sardonic glance. “Are you always this subtle?” he asked, using his booted foot to prod the corpse and roll him onto his front.

“Always,” Marlowe assured him, just as the body stilled.

Congealed blood circled a wound in the upper left side of Fordham’s back.

“Pistol?” Marlowe asked, dipping to his knees for a closer view.

“Too noisy,” Marcus answered, looking around the body. “A knife wound, though the killer must have taken the weapon with him.”

Marlowe turned his attention to the room. “What was a man of Fordham’s position doing in the Cock’s Crow?”

Tucked out of the way directly off the quay in Bournemouth, the Cock’s Crow was hardly a likely haunt for the nobility. No more than a warren of filthy rooms located over the equally dirty tavern below, the establishment’s typical patronage looked to include whores, their customers, and those eager for a place to hide.

“My best guess is that he was lured here,” Marcus answered, rolling the body back with his toe. “How did you find him?”