The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (23 page)

But Marcus had seen Carmichael in action before. Mighty men—the mightiest, to Marcus’s way of thinking—had been reduced to happily married fools.

He’d never suffer the same fate, if he had anything to say in the matter.

And then the brandy had swiftly kicked in.

Or Marcus had come to his senses.

One or the other, it wasn’t important.

He knew himself well enough to realize that he’d have difficulty solving the smuggling case when his mind was occupied elsewhere.

Namely with Sarah, whose very nature made him
question himself—down to the smallest of details. It was painful and, in all honesty, unnecessary.

And the hours between sundown and sunrise, when Marcus tended toward introspection, could be endured.

Would be endured.

Happily, if it meant this would stop.

That life would return to normal—or, at least, as normal as he’d ever known.

Resolution was at hand. He’d give up the bonny lass.

Now, if Marcus could only stand.

In the past, Claire had often commented on the lack of current fashion to be found in Madame Estella’s in Lulworth. But as Sarah looked about the cozy spot, she realized
that
was precisely why she found it so dear.

The tiny establishment sat cramped between the butcher on one side and the baker on the other, a fact that irritated many of Lulworth’s ladies to no end.

Sarah never quite understood why they were so annoyed with the placement of Madame Estella’s. The convenience of purchasing bones for her dogs and a bun with plump currants for herself, all within a few steps, delighted her.

Sarah could not imagine a more pleasing shop than Estella’s. True, the furnishings were slightly shabby. The damask settee probably should have been reupholstered the previous year, and Sarah suspected that the chintz curtains would not pass a close inspection. But the rows of fabric that lined the shop added an endearing touch. In London, the bolts of silk, satin, and velvet were mysteriously tucked away, to be brought out for each individual lady’s attention.

And then there was Estella. Sarah watched the seamstress as she deftly completed the final fitting of Claire’s periwinkle gown, pins between her teeth and more pins neatly stuck in the edge of one sleeve.

“A touch more here,” she mumbled around the pins, not waiting for Claire, Sarah, or Lady Tisdale’s approval
before she expertly folded a tuck in the silk just below Claire’s arm, the half inch of fabric making all the difference in the fit of the gown.

Lady Tisdale nodded in approval. “You do have a way with silk, Estella.”

The woman looped a graying curl behind her ear and humphed in appreciation.

Sarah smiled. Even her mother had to admit that Estella was as talented a needlewoman as one would find for miles around—not an easy thing considering the fact that Estella had gotten her start stitching fishing nets and sailors’ sturdy breeches.

Her business had been born from necessity when her fisherman husband was washed overboard in a storm at sea, leaving Estella with a rundown cottage and three babies to feed.

Now the talented woman expertly produced everything from rough woolen box coats for seamen to finely beaded ball gowns for the local gentry. Only in Lulworth could a woman do such a thing, Sarah thought to herself with pride.

“Sarah?” Claire asked, looking down at her friend. “What do you think?”

Sarah lifted Bones onto her lap, much to her mother’s clear consternation, and adjusted her skirts. “Estella was right. The bodice needed to be taken in just a touch.”

“Of course.” Claire raised her arms so Estella could continue pinning. “But my question is about the ball. I don’t know that we should go forward with it in light of all that has happened.”

“You’re being foolish, Claire,” Lady Tisdale declared stoutly. “The Bennington ball is a Lulworth tradition. The entire county looks forward to it with great anticipation—and most especially will this year, I’ve no doubt.”

Estella slipped the pins from her mouth and set them down on a worn worktable. “A ball might be just the thing to take everyone’s mind off those poor boys.”

She gestured for Claire to turn around, viewing the back of the bodice through narrowed eyes.

“Exactly,” Lady Tisdale said briskly. “You would be doing Lulworth a disservice if you canceled the event. Besides, it is tomorrow. You could hardly cancel with so little notice. I do think—” She cut herself off when Bones sneezed. “Really, Sarah, must you bring that creature in here?”

Sarah ignored the question in favor of what she considered a far more important issue. “But Mother, aren’t you the least bit concerned for Nigel’s safety?”

“Why on earth should I be?” Lady Tisdale asked confusedly, scooting as far from Bones as the length of the settee would allow.

Estella threaded a pin through the silk just at the apex of Claire’s shoulder. “Something to do with his dearest friends being murdered in cold blood would be my guess,” she muttered.

“Estella!” Lady Tisdale cried, shock and dismay written across her features. “Did you not just a moment ago agree with my judicious reasoning as to why the Bennington Ball should proceed as planned?”

Estella stepped back, ran a searching gaze over Claire from head to toe, and with a nod of satisfaction gestured for her to remove the gown. “That I did. But your boy’s safety is an entirely different kettle of fish.”

“Exactly, Mother,” Sarah agreed, calming a quivering Bones, who’d jumped in fright when Lady Tisdale had responded to Estella’s statement. “Nigel’s dearest friends—and smuggling cohorts, I might add—are dead. And not by accident. They’ve the bruised necks to prove it.”

The women fell silent for a moment, all four struggling
to absorb the unthinkable truth, for perhaps the hundredth time.

“Be that as it may,” Lady Tisdale said with a resolute sigh, “Nigel is hardly in danger. It’s rumored that Jasper and Clive
absconded
with a treasure of some sort.”

“Is that a fancy word for stealing?” Estella asked, carefully taking the gown from Claire and draping it over her sturdy arm. “I’ll help you dress, my lady.”

Lady Tisdale nodded grimly. “Exactly. So you see, Nigel has nothing to fear.”

Sarah looked at her mother, then Claire, and finally Estella, who was gazing at Lady Tisdale with disbelief. “Am I to understand you believe Nigel played no part in the theft?”

“Of course. Nigel is not like those other boys. He has no need to do such a thing.”

For the first time in her life Sarah wanted to slap her mother senseless.

Actually, that wasn’t quite true. She’d wished so before, but never had she come so close to following through.

Sarah had initiated numerous conversations with Nigel in the hopes of discovering some forgotten fact that would lead to the killer. But he’d only assured her that he knew nothing more—a statement that Sarah found hard to believe.

“Mother, I realize your daily activities do not often bring you into close contact with Nigel and his friends,” Sarah began, wrapping her hands about Bones’s midsection to assure they were otherwise engaged. “But allow me to enlighten you: Twelve-year-old boys need no reason to steal. Twelve-year-old boys need no reason to consume Cook’s strawberry tarts until they gag, nor a reason to swim naked in the ocean in the middle of November.”

Lady Tisdale began to fidget with her shawl.

“Mother,” Sarah demanded.

“He claims to know nothing of the trouble—”

“He’s hardly going to admit to such a thing at this point. His two dearest friends have been murdered!”

Lady Tisdale swallowed hard, her nervous fingers plucking at the shawl until Sarah thought she might tear a hole in the soft cashmere.

“We’ve given him no reason to steal—Sir Arthur and I have set the most moral of examples—”

“You’re not listening,” Sarah interrupted, gently setting Bones on the floor and shifting across the settee to her mother’s side. “He’s a
boy
. Boys do rash and reckless things every single day of their lives.”

Estella disappeared for a moment, returning with a teacup and saucer. “Here, my lady, drink this. It will do you good.”

Lady Tisdale reluctantly released her shawl and took the cup and saucer, avoiding Sarah’s gaze as she sipped. She gasped, her eyes opening wide as she let out a heavy breath. “This is not tea!”

“Good Lord, no,” Estella answered. “A time such as this calls for juniper cordial.”

Lady Tisdale rested the cup and saucer on her lap, her earlier forcefulness subdued. “What are we to do?”

“Lady Bennington holds the ball, because that’s what the county needs. And you make sure that the boy is locked up safe and sound,” Estella answered resolutely, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

Lady Tisdale looked ready to say something, but apparently decided against speech in favor of a second fortifying nip of Estella’s cordial. “I should not have denied Lord Weston’s request,” she moaned after swallowing.

“What request?” Sarah sat upright, foreboding filling her. Claire immediately crossed the room and sat in the dainty chair next to the settee.

“Lord Weston came to the house yesterday and asked
to speak to Nigel. I believe you were visiting the Burroughses, Sarah. I refused, of course. And when he offered to send one of his own servants to protect Nigel—”

“You refused?” Sarah interrupted. “Mother, how could you?”

Lady Tisdale drained the cup. “I hardly realized the danger—and who is Lord Weston to barge into my house and make demands of my family?” she added truculently.

Claire placed her arm about Sarah’s shoulders—whether to comfort or restrain, Sarah could not be sure.

“
Who
is Lord Weston?” she repeated. Anger at her mother’s determined refusal to see reason after the events of the last two days had Sarah clenching her fists.

“He’s surprising the lot of Lulworth, I can tell you that,” Estella interrupted, collecting the cup and saucer from Lady Tisdale. “My nephew told me Lord Weston has given his entire staff leave to attend the Michaelmas Fair.”

Lady Tisdale’s eyes widened until they were round as saucers. “That’s all well and good. But it hardly makes up for years of—”

“And I heard Mrs. Rathbone telling Mrs. Wyatt, in this very room, mind you, of the kindness Lord Weston has shown the Wilmingtons,” Estella continued with purpose. “It appears that
everyone
has noticed Lord Weston’s efforts.”

Lady Tisdale cleared her throat uneasily. “Well, I can hardly be expected to think on the man while my poor little boy is in danger.”

Claire squeezed Sarah gently, a subtle reminder to hold on to her temper. “Lady Tisdale, who is with Nigel at the moment?”

“Cook. The boy simply will not stand for being on his own these days,” she answered, a flicker of alarm
in her eyes. “Sarah, you must talk some sense into your brother. You’re the only one he will listen to.”

“Of course she will,” Claire answered for Sarah, gesturing for Estella to refill Lady Tisdale’s cup.

The dressmaker produced a small flask from within the folds of her corduroy skirt and poured. “For your health,” she urged encouragingly, handing it to Lady Tisdale.

She did not hesitate this time, taking a drink immediately. “We’ll get this all sorted out, won’t we, Sarah?”

Sarah nodded, though she felt anything but sure.

Nigel had lied to Cook.

It wasn’t the first time, nor, he suspected, would it be the last.

But the woman had been so awfully kind to him, allowing him anything in the larder, that Nigel felt guilty.

He’d told her not to worry, that he just needed a bit of rest in his room.

And then he’d run as quickly as he could toward the abandoned well on the northern end of Lord Weston’s property.

He tripped over a tree root and fell full length on the ground, scraping his palms on rocks in the grass.

He could feel tears welling in his eyes—just as they had again and again since Jasper and then Clive had been killed.

“Bloody baby,” Nigel whispered, sucking in a deep breath and screwing up his mouth as tightly as he could in an effort to stop himself from crying. A hard, tight knot lay heavy in his chest and it was difficult to swallow.

He dug into the deep, brown dirt with both hands, the feel of the cool earth beneath his nails comforting.

But he couldn’t lie there forever—though he wanted nothing more than that.

He pushed himself up on his knees, looking about quickly to ensure that no one had followed him.

Standing, he took a moment to swipe his palms over his hot, wet cheeks, and then he was off again.

Nigel had been as horrified as anyone when he’d heard of Jasper’s death—just as confused as well.

It wasn’t until Clive told him what he and Jasper had done that Nigel realized what kind of trouble the two were in.

After spying the emerald and coin, Jasper had gone to Clive and suggested they take a bit off the top—not too much, so that no one would notice—but enough that their families could live a better life than the one the sea provided.

Only they’d stolen something that was far more valuable to the French than either boy could have imagined.