The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (18 page)

She didn’t know exactly why he’d agreed, but her request that Lord Weston help her find Jasper’s killer had been met with some measure of enthusiasm.

Sarah knew that he was in no way obligated to say yes. Either the man truly did wish for acceptance in Lulworth or he wanted to spend more time with her.

Or both.

His behavior at Jasper’s wake had done much to favorably influence the citizens of Lulworth. Jasper’s father
had told the entire town of Lord Weston’s kindness. When he quietly paid the vicar for the funeral expenses and covered the cost of the wake, Weston rose measurably in the eyes of Lulworth.

Sarah knelt on the rug, a light worsted shawl about her shoulders.

In truth, she reflected, Lulworth’s attitude toward Lord Weston had everything to do with his attitude toward Lulworth. His infrequent visits to the village since inheriting the title had done little to ingratiate him to the people who relied on the estate for income and advice.

Sarah’s father bent down to peer through the telescope and Lord Weston stood for a moment, watching him adjust one knob and then another, an occasional “hmmph” escaping his lips.

“Lord Weston,” Sarah called, motioning to him when he looked over his shoulder at her.

He walked slowly to join her, stopping at the edge of the rug before stiffly lowering himself.

“He’ll be ages adjusting the mirrors just so,” Sarah confided. “Better to rest until he’s satisfied with the settings.”

Lord Weston smiled. “I suppose if one is going to go to all of this trouble, one ought to be precise about it.”

“Trouble?” Sarah asked, looking up. Stars were winking into view, sparkling like bright diamonds against the black velvet of the sky. “Hardly any trouble here. Now, in London …”

“Yes?” Lord Weston pressed.

Sarah looked at him, fascinated by the shadows highlighting his face beneath the moon’s cool light. “Well, let me put it this way: When did you last see the stars in the sky over London, Lord Weston?”

“The night before I left for Lulworth,” he drawled
with amusement. “There was Sophia Contadino, the Italian soprano onstage at the Theatre Royal—”

“Not
stage
stars, and well you know it,” she admonished him with little heat. “Really, just look up.”

He hesitated, as though to do as she asked would cost him.

“Up,” Sarah insisted firmly.

He finally tipped his head back and raised his gaze to the sky, his hands propped on the rug behind him for support.

Sarah did the same, sighing with pleasure at the sheer quantity of twinkling heavenly bodies. “Now, would you not agree that an opera singer can hardly hold a candle to such as this?”

“I suppose not,” he agreed without enthusiasm.

“Lord Weston,” Sarah exclaimed with surprise, turning her head to fix him with an assessing stare. “You’ve need of me far more than I first believed.”

He met her gaze, an appreciative male smile curving his lips. “And why is that, Miss Tisdale?”

“Well, you’ve clearly lost your mind if you cannot muster a suitable amount of excitement for all of this,” she declared, gesturing to the setting. “Really, your mother must have instilled in you some love for the country and its pleasures, did she not?”

His smile disappeared, his features taking on a somber cast.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah said quickly. Clearly, her spontaneous comment had struck a nerve. “It’s just that—well, I cannot imagine a lovelier place than Lulworth.”

“Do you remember what I told you, Miss Tisdale?” A brief smile eased the stern set of his jaw as quickly as it had appeared. “Never apologize. My mother acted with her heart when she married my father and she paid the price. The whole of Lulworth never forgave her—which
made it that much harder for me to appreciate the district.”

Sarah wanted desperately to reach out to him. To stroke his golden hair until the tension apparent at his temples eased. To set right what so many before her had clearly made wrong.

“Was it easier for your parents in Scotland?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap to keep from reaching for him.

“Have you ever been to the Highlands, Miss Tisdale?” Marcus asked, continuing to stare at the stars.

“No, though I wish I could say differently,” Sarah answered honestly.

He shifted, wincing as he stretched his injured leg. “It’s wild—beautiful, to be sure, but as rough and wild a land as you’ll find. I’m afraid being half a Highlander is hardly being a Highlander at all.”

The intimacy of their conversation made her ache for a physical connection, and Sarah’s fingers itched to touch him. “And so to London you went,” she confirmed, sympathy infusing her voice. “Has it become your home?”

“As much as anyplace else,” he replied, though his words lacked conviction.

She could not fight it anymore. She unclasped her hands and reached for one of his. Her fingers felt small and slim entwined with his warm, large ones. She gripped his hand tightly in an unconscious bid of support.

“Lord Weston, you must come and see!” her father called enthusiastically.

Marcus released her hand gently and rose. “Have we found a star?” he asked dryly, his usual demeanor returned.

“Not just any star.” Sarah’s father clapped Marcus on
the back with infectious good cheer. “Here,” he offered, gesturing for Marcus to look through the telescope.

Sarah sat very still, letting the light breeze cool her heated cheeks.

The armor of affable charm and witty humor had lowered for a moment, and she felt she’d glimpsed the real Marcus. But then, the shield had instantly risen once again and he’d retreated behind it with such speed that Sarah was momentarily disoriented. She found it necessary to breathe deeply, as though she’d run across the meadow and back without stopping.

What might he have said to her if her father had not interrupted? His eyes—oh, his eyes. Her body ached from the raw emotion she’d glimpsed for one brief moment burning in his green eyes.

And right then she knew it: He could break her heart.

A loud snuffle sounded much too close to her ear, followed by a damp swipe from an altogether too enthusiastic tongue.

“Titus,” she chided, her arms automatically encircling the big dog in an affectionate hug.

“Is Nigel with him?” asked her father, still intent on peering up at the night sky.

Sarah looked back toward the house but saw no sign of a lantern bobbing toward them along the darkened path. “I’m afraid not.”

She gave Titus a loving squeeze then used his broad back to steady herself as she stood.

“Was the boy to join us?” Marcus asked as he continued to look through the lens.

“Oh, yes,” Sir Arthur confirmed, fussing with the telescope and making minute adjustments to the supports. “Normally Nigel would not miss a night such as this—the moonlight is perfect.”

“I think he just needs a bit of time, is all,” Sarah explained reassuringly.

She could have added that Nigel had, as of yet, not left the house after dark since Jasper died but decided against revealing the fact. She didn’t want to worry her father further.

“Has he resumed his visits to the cove after dark?” Marcus asked as he relinquished the telescope.

“No—nor will he. I’ll not allow such activities again,” Sarah’s father said firmly, a thread of worry shading his voice as he bent to the eyepiece.

“I think that’s a wise choice on your part.”

“Yes, well …” Sarah’s father paused, and then cleared his throat. “Give me a moment, won’t you? I think a small adjustment will bring both Ursa Major and Minor into view.”

“Is there news?” Sarah murmured anxiously when Marcus pulled her arm through his and they strolled across the grass.

Titus let out a low bark, hefting himself up and lumbering after them.

“Interesting choice in chaperones, Miss Tisdale.” Marcus lifted a brow, his mouth quirked with amusement.

Sarah tugged him to a halt and faced him. “Please, my lord.”

“This is not a game,” he admonished, all amusement gone.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Sarah ground out in an angry whisper. “With my father nearly reduced to tears—and not for the first time today. Every villager in Lulworth is terrified. If there’s something that can be done I’ll not wait a second longer.”

“Dinna fash, woman.” The words were a low, rumbled command, his Scottish burr revealing itself once more. “I asked a few questions at the wake,” he began again, the fine English lilt returning. “It seems that a
number of the men that Nigel mentioned are not known in Lulworth.”

“Who told you this?”

“A few of the locals.”

Sarah nodded. “I’m glad they were helpful.”

“And I’ve you to thank for that,” Marcus acknowledged.

The breathless sensation returned and Sarah bit at the inside of her cheek. “I think your generosity made quite an impression all on its own.”

“I would not have been welcome at Jasper’s wake if not for your open support and friendship.”

Sarah considered Marcus’s reasoning. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“There, now was that so hard?” he pressed, leaning in until his breath caressed the shell of Sarah’s ear.

“You’ve no idea,” she said, pleased she could still remain honest, even when the man was so disturbingly near.

“I think I’ve finally solved the problem,” Sir Arthur called, his timing as impeccable as ever.

Marcus turned Sarah to walk back toward her father, Titus trotting behind.

“We make a good team, do we not?” Sarah asked, a sudden sense of exhilaration filling her.

Marcus looked down at her, his small smile returning. “We do, indeed, Miss Tisdale.”

Marcus rode as close to the edge of the cliffs as he could, slowing to peer down the rough path that led to the cove below.

No light gleamed from a bonfire on the sandy shore, though that hardly meant the smuggling activities had ceased. More than likely, casks of wine, bolts of silk, and the Lord only knew what else were making their
way either across the water from Calais or by land to London itself, where the items would be sold for a handsome profit.

Marcus surveyed the sea, stretching dark and unending toward the hidden shoreline of France.

Sir Arthur’s firm refusal to allow Nigel any further participation in the local smuggling game had made Marcus wonder.

He could swear Sir Arthur had expressed guilt.

The question was, what, exactly, did the man have to feel guilty over?

Pokey’s ears pricked up and he swung his head to the left just as a rider emerged from the woods.

“Marlowe.” Marcus reined the Thoroughbred around to meet his fellow agent.

Marlowe slowed his bay and pulled him to a halt. “Weston,” he replied good-naturedly. “You grow grimmer each time I see you. Isn’t the sea air good for your constitution?”

“You forget, I’m attending house parties and country dances while you’re gadding about the county,” Marcus said in a mockingly bitter tone.

“Jealous?” Marlowe asked, his grin big enough for Marcus to readily see in the moonlight.

“Of course—though I do enjoy the occasional jig.”

Marlowe laughed. “I’d pay good coin to see you dance a jig.”

“Give me the information I need to close this case and I’ll happily oblige,” Marcus assured the Corinthian.

Marlowe fumbled in his saddlebag. “Turns out the boy’s list includes some interesting frogs.”

“Meaning?” Marcus pressed, leaning forward in his saddle.

“You start with Smith,” he began. “A likely enough character—fisherman by trade, smuggler by necessity. There’s a few more of his ilk. Then the list takes a turn.”

Marcus recalled the contents of the boy’s neatly written note. “What of the Frenchmen—Chenard, Boutin, and DuBois? Nigel made it clear he wasn’t allowed near them—he didn’t even know their first names.”

“Hardly surprising if they’re the men I believe them to be,” Marlowe replied.

“Napoleon’s men?”

“Not just any of Napoleon’s men, no. These three, according to our sources, report directly to de Caulain-court.”

“Impossible.” If Napoleon’s valued minister of foreign affairs was involved, the situation was far more serious indeed.

“Not according to our contact,” Marlowe countered, “and I’d trust him with my life.”

Marcus considered Marlowe’s assessment, one not made lightly by any Corinthian. “But why would men at that level chance crossing the English Channel?”

“The Orlov emeralds,” Marlowe said succinctly.

“So you think it’s true, then? That they’re here?”

Marlowe nodded grimly. “Rumors are floating that Napoleon’s patience has run out. Once he secures Russia’s cooperation, he plans to take the rest of Western Europe in one fell swoop. The emeralds are all that he needs to move forward.”

The wind picked up off the water, ruffling Pokey’s mane as Marcus mulled this over. It would take a fortune the likes of which no monarchy had ever spent to secure such an army and the munitions necessary to win such a victory.

A fortune one would hardly entrust in the hands of just anyone.

“I don’t suppose Nigel’s list included those responsible for collecting the emeralds?”

Marlowe chuckled. “Now, that would take all of the fun out of it, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Spoken like a true Corinthian,” Marcus said, his mind already turning to likely suspects. “Any news of Dixon?”

“Other than that he’s a smug, annoying bastard?”

Marcus acknowledged this with a dry tilt of his head.

“Hardly,” Marlowe admitted, “though I’ll continue to keep an eye on him.”

“Do that.”

Marlowe shifted in his saddle as his mount stirred restlessly. “Of course.”

“Good,” Marcus replied, patting Pokey on the neck. “Keep me apprised.” He turned the big Thoroughbred back toward Lulworth Castle, kneeing him into a fast walk.

“I’ll hold you to that jig,” Marlowe said.

“I’d expect nothing less,” Marcus called over his shoulder, his lips curling into a grin as the sound of Marlowe’s laughter was carried away on the wind.