The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (8 page)

Sir Arthur understood the simplicity of the matter, answering in the affirmative and turning to retrieve a bottle of the brandy from the cabinet behind him.

Did Dixon think Marcus so inept that he’d not seen something was amiss? The question was, which of the men was suspect? The amiable and intelligent Sir Arthur or the arrogant Dixon?

Marcus was inclined to assume it was Dixon, but he could not be sure so early in the investigation.

“It cannot be easy to part with such drink,” Marcus said as Sir Arthur handed him the bottle.

He nodded in the affirmative, though his lips spread into a smile. “Let it be in honor of our new friendship, my lord.”

“Yes,” Dixon added, “to friendship.”

That broadsword came to Marcus’s mind yet again as he downed the last of his brandy in reply.

“Within reason, my arse,” Sarah said to Percival. The peacock eyed her with a weary look, as though he completely disapproved of her language. The bird had found his way to Tisdale Manor after the death of his mate. Well, in all honesty, it was not the death of his dear Penelope but rather Percival’s grieving—which had taken the form of endless crowing without regard to either time or day—that had landed him in his current situation.

His owner, Lord Such and Such from two counties beyond Dorset, threatened to turn him loose—a death sentence, to be sure. Which was when Sarah had stepped in. Percival had been transported to Tisdale House posthaste, where he’d settled in quite comfortably, though the lack of a peahen did trouble him now and again.

Sarah sighed deeply and looked about the wood, the roof of the manor house visible between the trees. “I promised to give up the use of such colorful language when I married, did I not?” she asked the bird, careful to keep her distance. She adored Percival in all of his sumptuous finery, but he could be a bit testy at times.

Percival looked off to the right, his exquisite blue breast and head shining with brilliant color, even in the shadows of the forest.

“And I am, to the best of my knowledge, not as yet married,” Sarah added succinctly.

Percival let out a plaintive caw, and then looked back at Sarah.

The sound of approaching hoofbeats drew near and Sarah looked to the section of the drive visible from her hidden vantage point. Mr. Dixon trotted by on his bay, not bothering to lift his mount into a canter, but rather digging his spurs into the horse to force the gait.

Sarah very nearly cried out for him to stop, the bay visibly flinching at the act. But she held her tongue, knowing that it would, in the end, be of no use.

Mr. Dixon never abused his animals in a way that his peers would find objectionable. He was gifted in the art of nuanced cruelty, as the bay could attest. There were many aspects of Mr. Dixon’s personality that made him utterly repellant as a suitor or potential husband, but his treatment of his animals was the worst by far.

She’d endured his attention all these years for one reason and one reason alone: She’d made Mr. Dixon promise that she could give his animals a home once they’d reached the end of their usefulness to him.

It had been easy enough to convince such a vain man to release a five-year-old Thoroughbred based on his coloring or a two-year-old mastiff due to his slobber. One word from John Fairweather, Dixon’s farm manager and Sarah’s true friend, and the man was convinced
the animals had reached a shocking level of unworthiness.

“I do believe that it appears bay horses are frightfully out of fashion this season, Percival,” Sarah said to the bird, getting to her feet. “I’m sure that Mr. Fairweather will agree.”

“Caw,” Percival offered in return, his gorgeous head turning alertly at the sound of yet another rider.

Sarah instantly backed up against a massive tree trunk and stood stock-still, nearly groaning aloud as Lord Weston rounded the corner on his impressive chestnut. The earl lazily held the reins in his hands, the horse meandering along as if they were enjoying the scenery.

A reluctant smile tugged at Sarah’s lips. The pair’s obvious affection for each other was endearing. She knew enough about Thoroughbreds to know they could be fiery and fierce, yet here strode the chestnut, as gentle as a lamb in his owner’s capable hands.

Sarah looked yet again at the leather reins in Weston’s hands, looped loosely about his long, sun-kissed fingers as they rested on his thighs. She’d not noticed earlier how his fawn breeches fit so snugly, the contours of the muscles visible even from the considerable distance.

“I was a bit preoccupied with hiding at the time,” she whispered absentmindedly to Percival, who blinked in response.

The rhythmic thud of Pokey’s hoofbeats held Sarah’s attention as she watched Lord Weston’s leg muscles flex and release as the horse walked on. Flex and release. Flex and release.

“Caw!”

Pokey stopped abruptly, tossing his head anxiously at the sound of Percival’s ear-piercing cry.

Lord Weston swung the horse in a circle to keep Pokey from rearing. “Easy, boy.” He patted the big chestnut’s
neck while scanning the woods, his gaze stopping scant inches from where Sarah stood.

“Miss Tisdale, is that you?” he called.

Sarah held her breath, her eyes widening with fear, certain she was about to be discovered. Percival appeared ready to caw at any moment.

“No? All right, then—only a bird, Pokey.” Weston clucked, urging the horse forward. The chestnut complied, apparently eager to move on and away from the cawing woods. The earl looked back, a small smile on his lips.

Sarah waited what felt to be nearly a quarter of an hour before moving, her limbs stiff from the effort. Percival had strutted over to a rotten log and was currently nibbling at bugs.

“This is entirely your fault, you know,” she said accusingly, wincing as she stretched complaining muscles. “If you could have only kept quiet.”

Thankfully, Titus had trotted after Nigel and a group of village boys earlier in the day. Lord only knew what disaster would have transpired had the mastiff been in attendance.

“Caw?” Percival replied, then bent back to his meal.

“Precisely!” Sarah answered resolutely, in truth not entirely sure how her need to hide in the first place had been Percival’s fault, but hardly willing to argue the point.

“Caw.”

The Boot Inn had changed little in the century since its door first opened to the thirsty fishermen and townsfolk of Lulworth. Marcus had visited a time or two on past trips, usually dressed in homespun and waiting until the patrons were sufficiently in their cups before making his way to the simple and unassuming tavern. Drunks were easily persuaded by rough clothing and the offer to purchase a round for all.

Tonight was no different. A raucous tune spilling from the open windows of the inn greeted Marcus as he handed Pokey’s reins to an ostler.

He’d gone home after visiting Tisdale Manor, consulting with Sully on the little he’d been able to glean from his conversation with Tisdale and Dixon.

The valet had arranged for a fellow Corinthian agent to meet Marcus at the Boot with information from Carmichael.

A blast of warm air and the pungent odor of hops hit Marcus as he pushed open the Boot’s door.

The patrons’ lusty singing was infectious. When a portly man, a thin scar running the length of his face from forehead to chin, clapped Marcus on the back, he could not help but join in the chanty’s chorus as the song made its way back around for the second time.

“Jolly sou’wester, boys, steady she goes!”
the men sang in unison, Scar Face taking a heavy drink from his pewter cup.

“You’ve a fine voice, lad,” the man growled to Marcus before staggering off to join his friends.

Marcus continued on to the back of the room, where an ancient oaken bar took up the length of the cramped tavern. A tavernkeeper stood behind the counter, wiping down tankards with a rough cloth.

“The high and mighty Lord Weston, in the Boot, then?” the man said by way of introduction, twirling his drying rag over his head and sketching a sardonic bow.

Marcus remained silent, quirking his eyebrow as if to suggest the man had misspoke.

The tavernkeeper dropped the rag on his shoulder and placed his large, rough hands on the ale-stained bar.
“Don’t bother, your lordship. I never forget a face—specially one that belongs to a swell that stole from me.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed as he looked more closely at the man. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Fish, three of ’em, and caught by my own hand.”

The summer of Marcus’s twelfth year came into his mind’s eye. He’d gone to swim at the lake and found a boy fishing. The youth had uttered filthy insults until Marcus could take no more. Two solid punches to the boy’s face had knocked him flat. Then Marcus had gathered up the fish and thrown them back into the lake.

The man grunted. “Has it come back now?” he asked, his crooked nose making Marcus smirk.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, dropping a guinea on the bar. “For the fish and something to quench my thirst,” he replied, knowing full well the man would hardly say no to such a sum.

He hesitated, one beefy hand finally reaching out to claim the coin. “What’ll you have?” he asked in a no-nonsense tone. “Ale?”

“No brandy, then?” Marcus asked.

“We’ve no brandy here, as well the two customs officials over there in the corner can tell ya,” he replied, jerking his chin in the men’s direction.

Marcus did not bother to look. “And what makes you think I’m not one of them?”

“I hear tell you’ve a taste for brandy, Lord Weston. And any man with a taste for brandy in Lulworth is not bloody likely to be a customs official. Besides, quality like you have no need for the work.”

Marcus couldn’t argue with the man’s logic. Nor was he surprised that news of his visit to Tisdale Manor for a tasting of the fine drink had traveled so quickly. There was, after all, very little to do in towns the size of Lulworth, and gossip spread fast.

He reached into his pocket again and threw down several
more coins. “And what would a man have to do to get a decent drink?”

The tavernkeeper was smart enough to know that a thirsty man, with the ready in his pocket—even one with Scottish blood—was, at the end of the day, a thirsty man. He pocketed the coin. “Did you see the ship lamp when you came in?” the man asked, filling the newly dried tankard with ale and setting it in front of Marcus.

Marcus wondered at the man’s line of inquiry but nodded his head.

“When it shines you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

Marcus thought back to his view of the Boot just before entering. The ship’s lamp was dark—a ship lamp that could easily be seen by smugglers waiting for a sign of safety in order to deliver their goods. “The customs officials don’t much like the lamplight, then?”

“You’re a smart man, Lord Weston—smarter than they say,” he replied. “Enjoy your ale.”

Marcus managed to avoid being pulled into service for the second song as he carried his ale to a small table near the front.

So the Boot was intimately involved in Lulworth’s smuggling? Hardly surprising, Marcus thought to himself, sipping the thick mixture from his tankard. A tavern would have good reason to serve more than ale.

Scar Face had staggered up to dance with a number of his friends. They were getting louder and more raucous. And their dancing skills left quite a bit to be desired.

A man walked toward Marcus, his appearance mirroring that of Scar Face and his cohorts: rough and faded clothing with the brine of the sea still on his boots. “Don’t mind Simon and the boys. They’re only having a spot of fun.” He pulled the chair out opposite Marcus and sat.

Marcus took another pull from his tankard. “If not in Lulworth, then where else?” he asked, the words learned from Sully only hours before.

“From sunup to sundown, a man can never go wrong in Lulworth, ’tis true,” the man replied, recounting word for word what the Corinthians had told Marcus to accept.

“James Marlowe,” the man said by way of introduction, “or Jamie, as my new friends seem so fond of calling me.”

Marcus knew enough of the peerage to connect Marlowe with the House of Richmond, though he could not remember the man’s rank. Not that it would have mattered, as he looked like a native Dorset fisherman.

“Weston.”

“Do tell Carmichael of the singing, won’t you? Particularly this ballad, which I’m sure he’ll find of great importance to the case,” Marcus said sarcastically.

Marlowe laughed heartily. “You’re not of a mind to believe the Weymouth coast activities bear a connection to the London robberies?”

“Are you?” Marcus countered, draining his tankard. “Or are you inclined to believe the more plausible explanation?”
he asked, patting his thigh very near the bullet wound.

Marlowe rubbed at his beard-roughened jaw. “I’ll admit as much, though the news from London does make one wonder.”

“Do tell,” Marcus urged, more than eager to turn his pathetic excuse for a holiday into something far meatier.

“Another robbery in Mayfair. Sheffield, just as our informant told us,” Marlowe offered, his tone remaining casual.

Scar Face trundled across the tavern and embraced Marcus, pulling him to his feet.

“A golden voice, this one,” the drunken Scar Face assured Marlowe before returning to his friends.

Marcus sat back down, the ditty having given him time to think. “Sheffield seems an obvious enough mark, don’t you think?”