His Sinful Secret (13 page)

Of course. She was the Marchioness of Longhaven, and a future duchess.

Since she’d always anticipated the marriage, that part was not so unsettling. It was Michael who had her rattled. She plopped down in a beautiful chair done in creamy white with yellow stripes and felt again the betraying discomfort as her bottom made contact with the seat. With more care, she eased into place. The soreness between her legs was a vivid reminder of the night before.

Had she pleased him?

It was a little unfair, because she had absolutely nothing to compare the experience to and he undoubtedly had many.

Plucking at the folds of her nightdress, Julianne stared at the window and wondered if it was better to be a chosen paramour or an obligation like a wife. She had his name and protection, but not his affection.

It would be nice to have both, but from his shuttered expression earlier, she doubted if it was even possible.

Lawrence pushed a small bag of coin across the scarred table. “There will be more when you have something to tell me.”

The thin young man scooped up the offering in a thrice and slipped it into his pocket. “Agreed.”

The tavern room was noisy, the patrons ill smelling. A blousy barmaid whirled past, spilling ale from the mugs clutched in her hand. Considering his nefarious past, the setting was hardly unfamiliar. Lawrence raised his brows, feeling the pull of his puckered skin on the left side. “Once a week should suffice for a bulletin on how it goes. All I wish is for you to stay close to the marquess and report to me anything suspicious. There have been two attempts on his life already. I anticipate there will be a third.”

“Aye, then, Captain. I’ll watch ’im.”

Johnson was capable despite his youth, and Lawrence had used him before upon occasion with great success, but he knew a warning was in order. “You’ll have to be very careful. Longhaven is no one’s fool and on his guard. All I’m asking of you is to observe and see if anyone else is trailing him.”

The boy grinned, revealing crooked teeth. “He’ll not notice me any more than his bloomin’ highbrow shadow.”

“Don’t underestimate him,” Lawrence said slowly, running one finger along the brim of his now-empty tankard in a thoughtful gesture. “His lineage and privileged life aside, Longhaven is no fop. I can say with authority he would be a tough bloke in a fight, be it fists, knives, or any other weapon. He has an edge as sharp as honed steel under those polished manners and fine clothes.”

Not yet twenty, with foxlike features and thick, untidy hair the color of new straw, Johnson nodded. “I’ll keep me distance.”

“You know how to reach me if there is anything of note to report.”

“Aye.”

The young man finished his ale, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and then slipped away. With approval Lawrence watched his quicksilver movements, confident he’d made the right choice. He ordered another drink, ignoring the red-haired barmaid’s roguish appraisal, her overblown figure not at all to his tastes.

He preferred his women lush and raven haired, with soulful dark eyes and a haunted past.

When he’d left the house, Antonia had still been sleeping. He hadn’t done quite so well for himself, settled in a chair by her bed in case she woke and needed him, all too aware of the level of her melancholy over Longhaven’s dutiful marriage. Once, she and the marquess had been lovers. The affair was brief and long over, yet her attachment held fast. The trouble was, even while Lawrence resented the devil out of the handsome aristocrat, he understood all too well Antonia’s feelings. To her, the man was a heroic, romantic figure, and to a certain extent, in a grim way, it was probably even true. Longhaven had rescued her from the French, seen to her protection, and in the end, given her a new life by encouraging her marriage to Lord Taylor. When her husband had been killed, she had come to England.

The war had changed Lawrence’s circumstances as well.

In fact, the three of them were all tied together. The death of the Duke of Southbrook’s oldest son had affected all their lives. Antonia had followed Longhaven to London, and because of Lawrence’s ties to some mutual colleagues, their paths had crossed. They all still fought the war, but instead of operating behind the French lines, capturing confidential communications and confounding the enemy’s intelligence forces, now they worked together in a more subtle way.

Apparently it was a deadly dance. The reason he wanted Longhaven followed was simple: he knew Antonia would enshrine the blasted man forever in her heart if something happened to him.

Lawrence lounged back in his chair, ignoring a burst of raucous laughter from the corner of the seedy tavern where three unshaven and definitely unsavory men indulged in a game of dice.
The marriage of the marquess has turned our interesting triangle into a quartet,
he mused, waving away a noxious waft of some particularly vile tobacco smoke. Antonia loved Michael Hepburn, Lawrence loved her, and, in the past, Longhaven had loved no one as far as he could tell. Yet somehow he had agreed to marry this sheltered young woman without so much as an argument.

Lawrence knew everything there was to know about her. After all, information was his business.

Julianne Sutton had been promised at birth to Harold Hepburn, Longhaven’s older brother, though the betrothal had been more an agreement between their two fathers, and the young man had died before the official marriage settlement had been drawn up and signed or the engagement announced. She was educated, refined, accomplished in the usual things such as music and dancing, and her family’s wealth and position in society would have ensured her a good marriage even without the early betrothal. Because of the duke’s eldest son’s death, her formal debut into society had been postponed as both families grieved, and from what Lawrence understood, she hadn’t minded the delay and genuinely was distressed over the tragedy.

Interesting. How did Michael feel about his new wife’s former attachment to his older brother? It was no doubt a waste of time to even speculate on it, but how did Lady Julianne react to the change in bridegrooms?

If he wanted, Lawrence suspected he could find out the young lady’s favorite color, if it would be useful. Her former nurse had been loquacious, according to the man he assigned to investigate the woman Longhaven would marry, and one of the footmen in the duke’s household was only there because Lawrence engineered his employment.

Knowledge was power. Always.

He had to admit he found the new marchioness interesting. She was young, but in reality Antonia was less than five years older, just legions more so in taxing experiences. Julianne Hepburn was now married to someone who had influence over Lawrence’s life. That meant he was going to make sure he understood the dynamics of how the new situation would work.

As a rule, he left nothing to chance.

“I
haven’t seen you.”

“Why would you? It has been unnaturally quiet, almost.” Michael looked unperturbed. “I’m here now though. What is so urgent?”

Damn her wayward emotions. Antonia drank in the sight of him as he quietly let himself into the study and closed the door. He was dressed formally in a dark blue superfine coat, his cravat intricately tied, boots polished, a touch of lace at his sleeves. The quintessential gentleman, urbane and titled and—in his case—dangerous on many levels, one of which was to her peace of mind. He even moved that way, with a certain lethal grace.

She squelched the thought. “I have something. It involves Roget.”

That got his attention. He paused, and then selected a velvet-covered chair and sank into it, his expression thoughtful. “How did you stumble across this information, if I may ask? I haven’t heard a whisper in several months and we both know I have been looking.”

Without being asked, she poured him a drink and rose to hand it to him. He accepted with a nod of thanks, his gaze fastened on her face.

If she could not hold his attention any other way, at least she had this common ground with him that his little wife did not. It was gratifying she could meet him as an equal in some measure. Respect might not be love, but it was something. She settled back into her own chair. “Smugglers. We intercepted, via a healthy bribe, a curious note. I cannot decipher the message, but his name is mentioned.”

“Let me see it.”

She’d expected the request and smiled at him. With deliberation, she withdrew the missive from the bodice of her evening gown. It was warm from her skin and scented with her perfume, and their fingers brushed as she leaned forward in an intentionally provocative movement meant to showcase her décolletage.

He noticed. There was an appreciative, amused flicker in his eyes, but he accepted the piece of vellum without comment. Quickly he scanned it, his brow furrowing, and then he looked up. “The symbol of the hawk is indisputably his, I agree. This is a good sign. I thought we’d lost him.”

So had she. Without inflection, she said, “I want his blood.”

“If possible, I’ll spill it for you.”

Antonia gazed at him. “I know you will.”

Michael simply took a drink from his glass, abstractedly studying the communication. “The code is a new one, or at least I haven’t seen it before.”

“It’s a puzzle,” she agreed, relaxing in her chair. It was a nice night, the evening warm. Michael sat comfortably across from her, the strength of his presence filling the room. When he was with her, somehow, even in times of the gravest danger, she felt safe. Antonia pointed out, “I imagine he could be the reason for the attacks on you.”

“It would explain a lot, except he would normally do it himself. The two inept assassins so far are not at all the caliber of Roget’s skill.” He stared at the paper spread on his knee. “I hope I am not dealing with two separate camps intent on my demise.”

“You confounded Bonaparte’s spies at every turn. There is probably a long list of people interested in your demise.” Antonia affected nonchalance. She feared for him every single day, though she doubted he would appreciate her worry. It wasn’t a discounting of her emotions as much as disinclination that anyone should waste their time in concern for his fate. Michael always seemed surprised when people cared about him.

She
loved him desperately.

He tapped the paper with a finger. “Thank you for this. I’ll see if I can’t figure it out. It would be invaluable to know what Roget is up to right now. Charles has offered help, and if I can’t make the missive out, then I’ll turn it over to him to pass it into the right hands. This has a personal edge for me, as you well know.”

“Me also.”

“Yes,” he agreed after a moment, his voice quiet, “for you also. Though we do not know how much of a hand Roget had in the killing of your family.”

They sat for a moment, mutual memories holding them captive, and then Antonia forced a smile. “So, how is it?”

He didn’t misunderstand, but then again, they knew each other well. Michael sank a little lower in his sprawl in the chair. “My marriage? It’s going well enough.”

Why did she perversely want to torture herself? She managed what she hoped was a cool tone. “Well enough. It sounds like heaven on earth. Can you not do better than that?”

“As I have never been married before, I am not exactly an expert on the subject. We are both adjusting to it.”

“Adjusting? How unromantic you sound on the matter.” Antonia knew her smile had turned as brittle as an icicle.

Luckily, she didn’t have to find out, for he was typically Michael and gave a somewhat evasive answer.

“I don’t think women look at things the same way as men. Naturally marriage is something anyone must get used to, my dear.” His look at her was pointed. “
You
were married, so you should know what I mean.”

“To a man three times my age who only offered me his name out of chivalry because
you
suggested it.” She knew she sounded ungrateful, and that wasn’t intentional. In her own way, in time she’d actually been very fond of her husband. He had been older, yes, but he had also been kind. His death had left her with yet another void in her life.

“The general enjoyed having the prestige of a pretty young wife.” As always, Michael didn’t rise to the bait enough to participate in a real argument. He was too restrained and detached for a heated debate over the past. “And it provided you with an entry into society and enough money to make you autonomous.”

He was infuriatingly right. He often was. It did not improve her mood. With an effort at the same indifference, Antonia asked, “Your little innocent pleases you?”

“Pleases me?”

“In bed.”

His hazel eyes were direct and his voice quiet. “You aren’t really asking me for details, Antonia, are you? That is between me and her.”