The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (28 page)

The constable had gone after him like a dog with a bone. Tears had filled the boy’s eyes when he was told his family was in danger.

Pringle had grimly related the grisly details of just how Jasper and Clive had left this cruel world, their necks wrenched until their heads nearly fell from their bodies.

The constable had even threatened to give Nigel over to the smugglers and be done with him if he didn’t tell them all that he knew.

Marcus would never have guessed that Pringle had it in him, his wiry frame humming with angry energy as he relentlessly questioned the boy.

Just as surprising was Nigel’s response. Though visibly shaken, he had endured Pringle’s onslaught with a strength Marcus suspected few twelve-year-olds possessed.

He was, after all, Sarah’s brother.

Sarah
, Marcus thought as he watched Nigel take a drink.

He’d known she would come, though he hadn’t guessed she’d arrive right on the heels of Dixon.

The man had protested loudly when he’d been refused entry to the castle. Everyone in the room had paused when the sound of Dixon’s outraged, angry bellowing reached the small room on the third floor.

Pringle had even used Dixon’s outburst to his advantage, telling Nigel that the smugglers had come for him. The boy had begun to shake with terror, but still, he’d remained silent.

Marcus glanced at Nigel, who’d drained his cup of weak wine and resumed staring at the floor.

Marcus gritted his teeth until it felt as though his jaw would break. Interrogation was, in essence, upending
the balance of power through physical and mental manipulation.

Marcus had never thought twice about using such tactics on hardened criminals.

But Nigel was not a hardened criminal. He was a child—and even more, the brother of the woman Marcus loved.

The pain in his jaw spread to his temples, a gnawing headache threatening to take over.

Marcus was glad that Sarah would be nowhere near Lulworth Castle when he finally broke Nigel.

He wished to hell he was anywhere else but here himself, with anything else to do but this.

Pringle had prepared Nigel, and now it was up to Marcus to finish the job.

It could be done slowly—certainly easier on the suspect. Or quickly—which, depending on how one looked at it, could be considered a kindness in its own way.

Marcus was out of time, which, in his experience, had a way of making things clear.

He stood and stretched, preparing for what he must do.

A swift and well-executed break was considered a badge of honor within the Corinthians.

Marcus had to wonder whether any of his fellow agents had been asked to apply such skills to a twelve-year-old boy.

He scrubbed a hand roughly down his face, took a deep breath, and savagely knocked the cup from the boy’s hands.

Nigel’s head shot up, his eyes wild with fear.

“I’m done indulging you, Nigel.” Marcus purposely injected a menacing note in his voice, raised his foot to the rung of Nigel’s chair, and shoved.

Nigel gripped the sides of the chair as it skittered across the floor and crashed into the opposing wall.

Marcus had calculated the move in order to ensure that he’d not do any real harm to the boy.

But he’d clearly scared him; Nigel jumped up and raced to the table in the corner.

“The table will afford you no protection from me.” Marcus stalked across the room to reach the boy cowering in the corner.

He paused, the sight of Nigel shivering with alarm making his gut clench.

Nigel needed for this to end.

As did Marcus.

In one swift move he grasped the table and threw it across the room, the wood fracturing into several pieces and sending the pitcher crashing to the floor.

“I didn’t know what Jasper and Clive had stolen until it was too late—I swear. You have to believe me!” Nigel cried, sliding down the length of the wall and pulling his legs in to rest on his chest.

Marcus let out a rough breath and turned, freezing as he caught sight of the open door.

Sarah stood in the doorway, her face bone-white beneath the red of her hair.

“How did you get in here?” Marcus demanded.

“Sarah!” Nigel screamed, scrambling up from the floor and running to his sister.

Sarah met him halfway. She wound her arms tightly around the boy and pinned Marcus with eyes bright with tears and betrayal. “You said I could trust you.”

Two Corinthians burst through the door. “Lord Weston—”

“Would someone please tell me how this woman gained entry to my home?”

“She bribed the scullery maid,” one answered.

“I did not bribe Emily,” Sarah ground out. “I simply asked after her sickly brother William and one thing led to another.”

The two agents looked abashed.

And Marcus was ready to knock their heads together.

“Well, at least now I know why you refused me entry.” Sarah gripped Nigel tighter. “You didn’t want anyone to see you torture an innocent child.”

“Now, wait just a bloody minute, woman,” Marcus began grimly.

“Weston,” Carmichael called from the doorway, his tone as calm as ever despite the tense situation.

“What?” Marcus snarled.

Carmichael leaned against the doorjamb, surveying the room. “I believe you need to speak with Miss Tisdale—alone.”

He pushed away from the door and walked to where Sarah and Nigel stood. “Come now,” he said gently to Nigel. “We’ll see if Cook has something for you.”

“No,” Sarah protested, her arms tightening around Nigel.

“Miss Tisdale, you have my word that your brother is safe,” Carmichael told her, his gaze meeting hers with direct honesty.

She stared at him, her expression reflecting her indecision until Nigel straightened, glancing up at Carmichael. Something about the older man’s gaze must have reassured him, for Nigel released her, squaring his shoulders as he turned.

“It’s all right, Sarah,” he said with barely a tremor in his voice. “I’m hungry.”

Sarah hesitated, clearly torn, but Nigel eased out of her grip and moved to stand by Carmichael.

“Pattinson, Stewart,” Carmichael said over his shoulder to the two agents. “I’ve need of you below-stairs.”

The agents snapped to attention and followed Carmichael and Nigel out into the hallway, shutting the door behind them.

“How could you?” Sarah’s hands were curled into
fists at her side, her entire body stiff with anger. “If I had a gun, I’d shoot you.”

“I’ve no doubt you would.”

Her soft lips compressed into a thin line. “Explain this.” One arm lifted in a jerky motion, indicating the room about them.

Marcus flexed his fingers. “Do we have to do this?”

“You assaulted my brother.” Her voice rose, threaded with outrage. “So yes, I demand an explanation.”

“God, woman,” Marcus snarled, gripping the smooth wood of the chair next to him. “Why will you Tisdales not do what is best for you? If you’d just do as you’re told—”

“Do as I’m told?” she ground out in disbelief.

“Yes, do as you’re told.” He shoved the chair, sending it skittering away across the floor, and thrust his fingers through his hair, raking the blond strands off his brow in frustration. “How am I to keep you safe otherwise?”

The chair slammed into the wall and broke.

Sarah stared at the splintered wood, and then at Marcus, who had moved to the window, his back to her. “What is going on?”

“The men that Nigel and his friends worked for …” He yanked at his knotted cravat, loosening the linen around his neck. “They’re not your commonplace smugglers. They’ve direct ties to Napoleon. And the jewel those boys stole was meant for him.”

Sarah’s knees went weak and she backed up to the wall, leaning on it for support. So many questions filled her head that she hardly knew where to begin. “How do you know such things?” she whispered.

“I’m not your commonplace earl,” he said grimly.

“A smuggler, then?” Sarah asked in disbelief, the very notion sounding ridiculous the moment the words left her mouth.

He leaned the point of one shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “Hardly, though there are times I wish it were that simple.”

With sudden impatience, he pushed away from the wall, gesturing for her to come to him.

Sarah thought to deny him, but the agony in his eyes was too much for her to bear. She walked slowly nearer, slipping her hand into his outstretched palm.

“I am part of a group that works for Whitehall—a group that specializes in cases such as these.”

“You’re a spy?” Sarah asked, her pulse quickening.

“Of sorts, yes,” he confirmed. “It’s hardly what you’re likely thinking, though—not the sort of thing you’d find in a Drury Lane melodrama.”

Sarah’s mind raced. “Were you sent to Lulworth expressly because of this treasure? Did you know of Nigel’s involvement before you came? Is your wound real?” she asked, brushing her knee against his leg where she approximated the injury to be.

“Ow, dammit, woman.” Marcus growled, wincing as he shifted his leg out of her reach. “Yes, the wound is real, and that’s all I’m going to tell you. It’s all I
can
tell you.”

“Why?” she pressed.

“Have you heard nothing I’ve said?” he demanded. “The less you know, the safer you are.”

Sarah squared her shoulders and frowned at him. “Have I not kept up with you thus far?”

“No, you have not,” he replied sardonically. “Look at you, your dress is torn in three places and you’ve bits of greenery in your hair.”

“But I made it into Lulworth Castle, all the same,” she countered.

Marcus stalked back to the window. “You have to trust me. Just as I needed you to leave Nigel to me, I need you to let this lie.”

“So you weren’t intending to harm Nigel?”

“No. The boy was close to telling us everything after the constable’s questions. He required a small push, that was all.”

Sarah followed him, slipping her arms around his waist, her cheek against his coat just below his right shoulder blade. “But I can be of use.”

“Not if you’re dead,” he said in a desperate tone, turning and crushing Sarah to his chest.

“Marcus,” Sarah responded, going up on tiptoe to gently turn his face to hers so she could kiss him.

He needed no encouragement to deepen the kiss, his tongue pushing into her mouth to claim hers. “I love you, Sarah.” He lifted his head to look down at her, searching her eyes with his own. “If I lost you …”

Sarah wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to do this alone. That she’d learned to trust him and he could do the same with her.

But she sensed he simply could not hear such words from her now.

“I’ll do as I’m told,” she said quietly, burying her face against the warm comfort of his broad chest.

She would try.

“Where is Miss Tisdale?”

Marcus stalked into the billiards room and dropped into an armchair upholstered in deep brown leather. He propped his feet on the matching ottoman and crossed his ankles before answering. “Safely at home with two Corinthians to watch over her and her family.”

Carmichael nodded his approval, and then took aim at a ball. “Not Pattinson and Stewart, I hope.”

Marcus smiled. “I wouldn’t be too hard on them. Sarah is a force to be reckoned with.”

“That, Weston—” Carmichael paused, expertly wielding his billiard cue, “—is an understatement.”

Marcus heard the cue tip crack against the ball before the sphere heavily rolled across the table. “Well done.”

“Hmmph,” Carmichael grunted in satisfaction, then returned the cue to its slot in the carved holder against the paneled wall. “How much did you tell her?”

“Enough to keep her safe,” Marcus replied, resting his head against the back of the chair and closing his eyes.

Carmichael perched on the arm of the heavy, masculine leather chair opposite. “I was under the impression that there wasn’t enough information in the world to guarantee such a thing.”

Marcus purposely kept his eyes closed. “We’ve reached an understanding,” he answered, making it clear that he had nothing more to say on the topic.

“I’m not one to pry—”

“Carmichael,” Marcus interrupted. “Don’t forget that I’ve seen you in action. Clairemont, Marlowe—”

“Marlowe did not follow my advice and look where that got him.”

Marcus nodded. “All right, I’ll give you Marlowe, but you can hardly deny your meddling handiwork with Clairemont.”

“I simply advised the man, nothing more.”

Marcus opened his lids far enough to give Carmichael a disbelieving, narrow-eyed stare. “Yes, well, be that as it may, they are now married.”

“Happily married, mind you,” Carmichael added. “And besides, who said anything about marriage? I’m hardly prepared to lose another agent to a marital union.”

Marcus dropped his feet to the floor and sat up straighter. “You don’t fool me for a minute, Carmichael. You’re like the gander to all of us goslings—”

“I’m fairly certain that the gander, if given the chance, kills his young,” Carmichael said mildly.

Marcus muttered a pithy oath. “Nor will you throw me off with wit.” He pointed an accusing finger at his superior. “I’ll not be led astray—or be shown the path. Whatever it is you do.”

“Well, you clearly feel quite strongly about all of this,” Carmichael replied affably, folding his arms over his dark blue waistcoat.

“I do.” And he did, Marcus realized with surprise. “Tell me,” he said with an abrupt change of subject, “did you make any progress with Nigel?”

Carmichael nodded. “The boy knew nothing of the theft until after Jasper’s death. That’s when Clive told him about their scheme, but by then it was too late. Nigel was in possession of the emerald—which we already knew, of course—and it’s currently locked away in your study. He’d planned on using it to arrange a meeting with Charles and the others.”

“What for?”

“The opportunity to avenge his friends.”

Marcus scratched at the morning stubble on his cheek. “The arrogance of youth.”

“To be sure,” Carmichael answered. “They’ve killed two boys, what would one more be to them? Besides, they need to ensure that no one knows the truth behind the treasure—at least not until it’s in Napoleon’s hands.”