The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel

B
Y
S
TEFANIE
S
LOANE

The Devil in Disguise
The Angel in My Arms

D
ORSET
Summer 1811

Marcus MacInnes, the Earl of Weston, looked out over Lulworth Cove and chuckled. “Well now, Sully, you’ve seen it for yourself. Aye, it’s my own personal Jericho. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The valet’s swarthy face remained unreadable, the lines around his eyes deepening as he squinted, his gaze focused on what lay below them. The cove’s blue water lapped at the hulls of fishing boats. On the shore, the village dozed sleepily in the warm sunshine.

Exactly the sort of spot where a gentleman might just be sent to rusticate from a gunshot wound. Especially if the gentleman happened to be a spy.

Sully turned to look directly at his master. “It looks quiet enough, I’ll give you that.”

Marcus smiled wryly before turning his horse back onto the leafy path. “Indeed.”

Sully followed suit, kneeing his bay gelding next to Marcus’s chestnut Thoroughbred. “There
could
be smugglers.”

Marcus slowed his mount just long enough to give the valet a dubious look.

“Or not,” Sully admitted somewhat dejectedly.

Marcus ducked his head to dodge a low-hanging limb
and the green leaves of one of the massive whitebeam trees that lined the trail. “What a waste of time.”

But there was nothing he could do about it. He’d been given an order, and he’d bloody well follow it.

Marcus was a Young Corinthian, and that meant something.

Dammit.

He and Sully continued on in silence. Their horses, Marcus thought absently, seemed thankful for the slower pace after the three-day ride from London to Lulworth, a sleepy hamlet located in Dorset along the southwestern coast of England.

The shaded lane curved and ahead of the two riders rose Lulworth Castle, Marcus’s home. Originally built as a hunting lodge, the impressive structure had been expanded over the years until it was the largest home in the district.

The unentailed castle belonged to Marcus, due to his mother having been an only child. Yes, it was all his. And it was undeniably magnificent. But it was not where he wanted to be.

Marcus was a member of the Young Corinthians, a clandestine spy organization led by Henry Prescott, Viscount Carmichael. There was an unwritten rule among the Corinthians never to question an assignment. The life of a spy demanded complete loyalty and unswerving belief in your superior’s judgment. Something Marcus had suddenly found particularly disagreeable.

The moment a bullet found its way into his leg during a mission this past spring, Marcus had known that his role within the elite organization would change dramatically. Until his injury healed fully, he was more a liability than an asset in the field.

Nevertheless, when Lord Carmichael suggested that Marcus investigate recent smuggling activity near his ancestral home in Dorset, Marcus nearly abandoned his
well-practiced charm and told his superior exactly what he thought of the assignment.

Finding yourself with a bullet in your leg was one thing. Having your superior send you off on a fool’s errand was quite another.

He couldn’t deny that in all likelihood he’d made himself something of a nuisance to Carmichael as he impatiently waited for his blasted wound to heal.

And if he admitted that much, then he really could not blame Carmichael for dispatching him to the Dorset countryside when news of a possible connection between radical revolutionaries and local smugglers had the Prince Regent’s drawers in a twist.

As Carmichael had informed him over plates of roast beef at their club, a string of recent robberies in London was believed to be related to the suspicious activities in Lulworth—both somehow tied to Napoleon’s supporters.

Marcus had only stared at Carmichael in disbelief, a heavy goblet of brandy poised halfway to his mouth. Really, it was too much to be believed.

But still, Marcus reluctantly realized, if he were to be completely honest, his irritation with the assignment had as much to do with the location as with the smuggling investigation itself.

As a boy, when not in Inverness at his father’s estate, the family had split its time between London and Lulworth. At least in London he’d been able to lose himself amid the constant thrum of social and sporting events. But the same could not be said for Lulworth. The hamlet’s inhabitants had never gotten over his Scottish father’s stealing away the fairest of their English roses. It hadn’t helped that the elder Lord Weston embraced his role as the brutish Highlander with particular relish. His habit of donning a tartan and broadsword
whenever his relatives visited the castle had only made things worse.

The locals hadn’t liked the father, and as a result, they didn’t like the son. And Marcus had known, from a painfully early age, that he simply did not fit in. Not in Lulworth, where everyone from the baker’s son to the solicitor’s daughter saw him as nothing more than the son of a thief. Not in Inverness either, where the blue English blood in his veins meant he’d never be a true Highlander.

“I’ve sorely missed Cook’s pheasant,” Sully said, pulling Marcus from his thoughts.

The stone castle stood before them with all the welcoming warmth of a midwinter snowfall.

“You’re an accomplished liar, Sully, I’ll give you that.” Marcus’s amiable tone belied his most recent grim thoughts. “But I know you too well. It’s Cook that you’ve been looking forward to, not her creamed peas.”

“Pheasant,” Sully corrected him. “And it’s quite a succulent bird that she cooks,” he protested. “Though her creamed peas are quite delicious as well.”

Marcus reined in his horse and raised a hand. “Far be it from me to intrude upon the ways of love,” he said sardonically, prompting a harrumph from his valet.

With a noticeable lack of his usual ease, Marcus awkwardly swung a leg over the saddle and lowered himself to the ground, an instant stab of pain shooting up from the healing wound in his thigh. He ground his teeth together until the sensation subsided, then drew the soft leather reins over Pokey’s head and handed them to Sully. “I’m going to walk off this stiffness. I’ll be along shortly.”

Sully gave Marcus a considering look then leaned from the saddle to take the reins. “Are you up to it?”

“Awa’ an’ bile yer heid!” Marcus growled, though the valet’s thoughtfulness made him smile.

“Oh,” Sully began, turning the two horses toward the stables, “I’ll be missing that burr of yours while we’re here. Can’t be playing Lord of the manor sounding like one of them Jacobites though, now can we?” he teased. “I’ll be in the kitchen, then.”