My Wicked Marquess (35 page)

Fear pulsed through her now that the moment of truth was at hand. Shoring up her courage, she thrust her hand into the small, dark hiding place in bold determination to see what she would see.

She pulled out the vial of solution that had stunk up the room earlier. She put it aside and kept it away from the candle, aware it might be flammable. A second brave reach into the dark hole produced a little inkpot, but why hide ink? she thought. Ah, unless it was the type used for invisible writing.

Next she pulled out a small pistol. Well, that was self-explanatory, though she was surprised he kept a loaded weapon in his bedroom. She put it aside with a worried look.

Her next reach into the little cubbyhole yielded a strange pasteboard disk about the size of her hand. It had block letters all around the edges, a second pasteboard circle fixed atop the first by a single brass tack.

She examined it and found that the top disk could be
turned, so that the letters lined up in any combination. She had no idea what it was. Reaching into the hiding place again, she felt a small metal object.

When she brought it forth into the candlelight, it proved to be a man's ring wrought of chunky gold. She held the ring up closer to the candle to examine the image it bore. Oh, this was too bizarre.

The design on the seal of the ring matched the white Maltese cross that she had seen in his ancestors' portraits, and which was hanging in their family chapel.

God, what have I got myself into?
There were still no clear answers. All she had at this point was the crushing confirmation of her worst fears, that he was lying to her. She did not understand. If you loved someone, if you had any respect for them at all, you did not deal them false.

Brushing away a tear, she reached one last time into the now almost empty hiding place; finally, on the bottom, she felt paper. Dry-mouthed with uneasiness, she slowly took out Virgil's letter.

The paper was stiff and still stank faintly from the now-dried solution Max had applied to it earlier today. She unfolded the single crease with the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

The white space below Virgil's short description of the black Arabian mare for sale at Tattersall's was now filled in with a set of instructions for her husband.

She stared in shocked confusion at the few short lines.

First: Who did this Highlander think he was, to be giving orders to a more powerful and higher-ranking peer like Max?

Second: Who was Drake?

And third and most importantly: What did they want with dear old Lady Westwood?

As active as she had always been in Society, Daphne was well acquainted with the widowed countess, a dear, sad, fluttery old thing, the helpless damsel type.

They belonged to the same church, and Daphne had seen her there each week for years, all dressed in her widow's black. She had always thought Lady Westwood rather an odd duck; she always seemed to be a nervous wreck, and
also slightly paranoid.
Probably how I am going to end up, too, if I have to endure a lifetime of these intrigues.

None of it made any sense. Her first reaction was confusion, but glancing toward her chamber where he slept on peacefully, she felt her anger returning with a vengeance.

Who was he?
What did it mean? Did she even know him at all?

Turning her attention once more to the letter, she had half a mind to go and wake the blackguard up and demand that he tell her what was really going on.

But how naïve could she be? He would only lie again. If he had taken such pains to conceal this mystery from her, what made her think that now he would magically oblige her and simply start explaining?

No, she realized. He was going to have to be forced into it. She shook her head in seething anger, but she already knew what she was going to do. It seemed it was
her
turn now to investigate him, just as he had done to her for several weeks before they had even met.

The sense of burning betrayal at his secrecy made her soul ache, but nothing would stop her now from finding out exactly who he was, this man she had married, and what sort of mischief he was up to.

She saw no other choice, because this was not the marriage that she had agreed to. In the hayloft of the Three Swans Inn, she had asked Max to be open with her, and had taken him at his word when he said he would. Yet despite his promise, he had persisted in deception.

He had broken the terms of the understanding they had reached, never mind that she had finally accepted his offer of marriage precisely
because
she had thought they would be on equal terms.

This wasn't equal. He had turned her into a patsy.

All this time, while she had been holding him in the very center of her heart, giving him all the love she had to give and holding nothing back, he had been carefully concealing himself from her. As usual.

God, she felt so stupid. For a few moments, she struggled against tears of hurt and dread.

All she knew was that she was done listening to his lies. She narrowed her eyes in rage. Since it was clear he wasn't going to tell her the truth, she had no choice but to investigate him for herself.
Let's see how
you
like it
.

She threw Virgil's letter onto his bed and stalked off to her closet to get dressed. It would be light in a few hours.
You want to play games with me, husband? Very well.

I'm not the pretty-headed idiot you take me for.

 

Max awoke later than usual the next morning with a stretch and a yawn and a feeling of pure, well-serviced bliss lingering in his body.

His lovely seductress was already awake, apparently, going about her day. He was in bed alone, and judging by the light, he guessed it was about nine o'clock. He wanted breakfast, but he lingered in contentment, hoping that any moment, he would see her smiling face coming in to greet him.

Surely after a night like that she would have slept off her strange mood and returned to her usual amiability, back to her adorable self.

“Daph?” Maybe she was bathing in the tub between their rooms or in the closet picking out her clothes. “Sweet, are you here?”

No answer.

Max sighed, dragged his hand through his hair, and decided to go down to breakfast. She was probably already there, though he did not like this business of waking up alone.

He had grown used to sleeping with her in his arms, and it was very unusual for her to slip out without waking him.

He found it odd.

With a wry glance at his clothes strewn around her chamber, not to mention her red taffeta gown lying in a heap where she had discarded it, he walked naked from her bed into the mirrored passageway that joined their chambers, eyed his scruffy jaw in need of a shave, scratched his chest; he glanced into the bathing room, and then the closet, making sure she was not there.

When he proceeded on into his chamber, however, he sud
denly froze in horror at the threshold of the room.

What he saw stopped his heart for a second, knocked the air out of his lungs.

All of his spy-related items from his secret hiding place were strewn across his bed. The vase was cast aside; the alcove niche stood open, exposed for all the world to see.

With his heart in his throat, he turned and saw the mirror over his dressing table. Through the reflection of his own stunned, ashen face, he read the one-word message that she had written there for him in angry red rouge.

LIAR.

I
t is so kind of you to call on me, Miss Starling—pardon—I mean, Lady Rotherstone,” the frail old Countess of Westwood corrected herself with a fond smile.

Daphne sat with her in her stately drawing room, waiting for the servant to bring the tea. “Well, you know, I was passing by and admiring the house from afar, and when one of your local peasants told me it was Westwood Manor, I could not pass up the chance to come and pay my respects.”

“Such a thoughtful gel.”

“It really is a beautiful home. Thank you for showing it to me,” she offered. “The grounds are lovely, too.”

“Rather stark now, with all the leaves fallen,” the old woman conceded with a sigh as she gazed out the window overlooking the terrace. “Oh, I was going to ask you—how is your dear great-aunt Anselm these days?”

Daphne smiled and began chatting warmly about the latest news from the Dowager Dragon, but her thoughts strayed back to Max. She was keeping one eye on the mantel clock.

Though she had a comfortable lead on him, she had no doubt he'd be arriving soon, and he was not going to be happy. She could not wait to see his face when he arrived and saw that for once, she had outfoxed him.

Oh, she was going to relish his wrath.

At least this time she had not dragged the two Willies into her mischief. Now that Max was technically their employer, she did not want to risk him giving them the sack just to punish her for running off again.

At the carriage house at their estate, she had discovered her husband owned a high-perch phaeton similar to Jono's. Since she had gained a good deal of experience driving this type of vehicle, she had asked the grooms to ready it for her, and had driven off “to take the morning air,” leaving no one on the staff with any real idea of where she was going. Her husband, she trusted, was canny enough to figure it out for himself.

At any rate, the crisp, late-autumn day was perfect for a country drive; she had set out knowing the general route of how to get here, but whenever she needed more specific directions to Westwood Manor, she simply stopped and asked.

“Ah,” said Lady Westwood, “here is John with the tea.”

The tall, liveried footman carried in their tea service on a silver tray and carefully set it down on the dainty table between them.

He gave Lady Westwood a somber bow. “Will there be anything else, madam?”

“Yes, would you move the fire screen, John? The room is a bit drafty. And fetch my pillow for my back.”

“Yes, milady.” He strode over to the embroidered fire screen and removed it so the heat could more easily reach the old woman. Then he brought her pillow from the other reading chair by the window and arranged it almost tenderly behind her.

Daphne had noticed since she had arrived that this tall, strapping male servant looked after the countess as attentively as if she were his own aged mother. He barely let her out of his sight. It was very touching.

During her tour of the house, footman John had been ever at the ready to assist Lady Westwood, who walked with a cane and had some difficulty getting around on account of her arthritis.

Seeing her move so stiffly, Daphne had hated putting the
old woman through the tour, but Lady Westwood had clearly been delighted to have a young visitor, and with an air of great pride, had taken Daphne on a friendly tour of her very formal stately home, with all its exquisite furnishings and fine art.

This exercise would not have been possible if not for the solicitous aid of footman John, shadowing the countess, assisting her up and down the stairs, getting doors for her as she required, providing quick physical support, a steadying hand, or a strong arm for his frail mistress to lean on.

“That will be all, John.”

“Yes, milady.” He bowed when she dismissed him, and withdrew into the distant doorway of the room for the next time he was needed—which, by the look of things, was probably soon.

Noticing Lady Westwood rubbing her hands with a frown, Daphne leaned forward. “Would you prefer me to pour out, my lady?”

“Oh, my dear, if you would not mind doing the honors. My joints do not appreciate this cold.” She let another dismal sigh. “Ah, but I'm afraid it will only get worse. Winter will be here before you know it. And the snow.” She made a face as Daphne poured the tea into their cups.

“Well, at least you have no trouble with your domestics,” she remarked. “Your fellow there seems to do a fine job looking after you.”

“You mean footman John? Yes, well, he is merely taking pains to be kind to me in the hopes that when I pop off, I may leave him a few extra pounds.” She let out a baleful sigh. “It is shrewd of him, for I doubt that I shall last into the spring.”

“My lady, do not say such a thing.”

“Ah, well, it is true. But you're right. He is much better than his predecessor was, especially for only having been in his post a few weeks. That last blackguard ran off as soon as he had collected his pay. Can you imagine such a thing? Dashed off without a word after years of service.”

“Really.”

“Peter.” She nodded. “He never was much use. John is a vast improvement, though he never smiles.”

“Even so, he is not bad to look at,” Daphne teased in a softer tone.

Lady Westwood laughed abruptly, jarred out of her misery for a moment. “That he is, I'll grant you! A handsome face is never an impediment in this world, whether it belongs to a servant or a prince.”

The two women laughed conspiratorially. But as Daphne handed a cup of tea to Lady Westwood, she glanced discreetly at the portrait above the mantel.

“Speaking of handsome faces, may I ask who that gentleman is in the picture?”

“Ah.” Her bony shoulders dropped. Her momentary laughter faded. “That is my Drake. My son.”

“He is very handsome.”

“Was, my dear. He has gone to be with the Lord.”

“Oh—I am so sorry!”

“Yes, those are his ashes in the urn.”

“Please forgive me! I did not know.”

“It's all right.” Lady Westwood lowered her head.

Daphne was, however, immediately confused. Virgil's letter to Max had mentioned this Drake, but the Highlander had written that someone had seen him—alive.

“When did he die?” she asked softly.

“Nearly a year ago.”

“Was he…may I ask…in the war?”

“No, no, my Drake never bothered with politics. There were those who considered him a rakehell, my dear, and honestly, they were not far off the mark.” She flinched and rested her tea on her lap. “I am sorry to say he spent most of his time chasing pleasure. He died abroad. I told him not to go. But he could never stay in one place. Oh, it's all been so dreadful. Now the two different branches of the family are wrangling over who will get the title. At least I shall be allowed to live on here until the lawyers can determine which of my nephews has the greater claim.”

“I am so sorry for your loss.” Daphne reached over and rested her hand on the lady's thin forearm. “It must be unbearable for you, going through all this. I had no idea.”

“I pray you will never know the grief of losing a child, my
dear, or watching your darling son go astray. But I fear, alas, it is a common plague.”

Daphne felt a chill steal across her heart. “Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked softly.

The old woman gave her a wan smile. “You already have, just by visiting me. I should have liked my Drake to meet a girl like you. Unfortunately, he wasted his time on unmentionable women and died before he ever fell in love.”

She smiled sadly at Lady Westwood's words, and leaned back again in her chair. But at least now she was beginning to see a possible reason why Virgil would want Max to come here and check on Lady Westwood. With all the time that Max had spent on the Continent, maybe he had known Drake over there. Daphne did not have the slightest notion what was going on, but she sincerely hoped for Lady Westwood's sake that the woman's rakehell son might still be alive.

“Lady Westwood, do you think…your son might have been acquainted with my husband?”

The countess turned to her intently. “Yes, my dear, I'm rather sure he was.”

At that moment, Daphne felt someone watching her. She looked over slowly and saw footman John's cold stare fixed on her. Goodness, this protective servant did not seem to like her asking questions that might upset his fragile mistress.

A flash of motion through the picture window caught her eye just then. Looking over, she spotted Max astride his galloping horse, charging up the long drive.

“Well, it appears my husband has finally found me,” she remarked in an airy tone. “He is so protective. I had a feeling he might come looking for me.”

“Newlyweds.” Lady Westwood smiled.

“If you'll pardon me for a moment, I shall go out and greet him, and assure him I'm all right so he won't come in here scowling like a surly bear.”

She chuckled. “As you wish, Lady Rotherstone.”

Daphne set her tea down and left the drawing room, going out the front door.
This should be interesting
, she thought, and she braced herself for a storm.

Striding past the great pillars of the façade, she slowly descended the stairs of the front portico as Max rode up to the house, dressed all in black as he had been that day in Bucket Lane.

He was bareheaded, his dark hair tousled, his cheeks ruddy from wind and sun; his pale eyes glittered with anger as he shot a fierce stare her way, pulled the blowing horse to a halt, and swung down from the saddle.

One of Lady Westwood's stable boys dashed out to take his horse. Max didn't even look at the lad. His gaze was locked on her.

As he stalked toward Daphne, she quivered half with a spurt of apprehension about his reaction, and half with relief that he had cared enough to come.

Absently, she noticed in wifely fashion that he had left the house without a shave. He must have raced out as soon as he had seen her little message on his mirror. She took a small degree of satisfaction in that. But with that dark scruff roughening his jaw, he looked even tougher and more dangerous than usual; instead of being afraid of him, though, her mind was flooded with images of their wild coupling last night.

As he approached her, she was filled with a disturbing surge of lust for him, despite her anger and hurt and her general desire to throttle the man.

“Hullo, darling,” he said coldly.

Daphne smiled at him, with an aloof lift of her chin as he bent and kissed her cheek, reproach shooting from his eyes.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

“Lady Westwood goes to my church back in Town,” she replied. “Did you know that?”

“Well, my Society girl, you do know everyone, don't you?” he answered as they stared at each other.

“Everyone but you, my lord. So it would seem.”

He flinched but showed no signs of backing down. “You should not be here.”

“Why? What is going on around here?”

“Be quiet,” he ordered in a harsh whisper as the butler opened the door for them.

“Be quiet?” she retorted in an outraged yet equally soft tone. “How dare you say such a thing to me? May I remind you, you are in no position to be giving me orders!”

“I am your husband! And as for you,” he whispered angrily as he took her elbow and steered her back inside, “you are in so far over your head right now, you have no idea what you're dealing with. If you blow this investigation for me, you could endanger all of England, so I suggest you keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. Follow my lead; remain calm, whatever happens; and we will settle this later between ourselves.”

“Well, I don't see how one frail old lady can be such a terrible threat to the realm,” she hissed under her breath as they walked back into the house.

“I'm warning you,” he answered in a low, pleasant singsong just as they strolled past footman John and returned to the drawing room.

“Lady Westwood,” Max greeted the countess, turning on that damnable Rotherstone charm.

Daphne introduced her husband to their hostess.

“Please forgive my appearance!” Max said with a dazzling roguish grin as he brushed off a stray bit of dust from the road. “When my wife did not return from her drive after a couple of hours, I became worried and set out to find her.”

“Oh, I told you I'd be quite safe. He thinks I'm a ninny-head.”

“Not at all, my darling!” He kissed her hand and smiled again at their hostess. “It is a husband's duty to worry. Dashing off on your merry way. It will not do, my dear. It will not do a'tall.”

Lady Westwood chuckled at their exchange, unaware of the powerful currents of tension that passed between them.

“As I was telling Her Ladyship,” Daphne said, “I was simply driving by and could not resist coming in to visit.”

Max sent her a small frown askance, and the impatient look in his eyes told her just what he thought of her cover story to the old woman.

Of course, she was not the accomplished liar that he was.
She gave him an artificial smile in return.

“In any case, I hope we're not intruding,” he said to the countess. “It's just like my wife, the social butterfly, to seek out any opportunity for a cup of scandal broth.” He nodded amiably toward the tea service.

“For shame, my lord, we have not been gossiping at all. Certainly not about you,” Daphne assured him pointedly.

“I was just beginning to bore your dear young lady with my tales of Drake.”

“Bore me? Nonsense!” Daphne said.

“Drake?” Max echoed innocently.

Daphne eyed him askance.

“My son,” said Lady Westwood. “I was under the impression that you knew him.”

Max paused. “I cannot recall,” he answered in a friendly tone, and shrugged.

“There's his portrait,” Daphne said, her suspicions rising. “Does he not look familiar?”