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BOOK: Sylvia Day - [Georgian 01]
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Marcus clenched his jaw and willed the image away.
Sitting on the bed, he yanked off his shoes. Then he turned to her. “Did you enjoy your trip into town?” he asked casually, but it didn’t fool her.
Elizabeth knew him too well.
She made a great show of sitting up in the bed and fluffing the pillows into a comfortable pile. “Why don’t you simply say what you mean?”
He tore his shirt over his head, then stood to remove his breeches. “Did your lover not bring you to orgasm, love? Are you anxious for me to finish what he started?” He slid into bed next to her, but found himself alone. She had slipped out the other side and stood at the foot of the bed.
With hands on her hips, she glared at him. “What are you talking about?”
Marcus leaned back against the pillows she had so recently arranged. “I was told you spent some time with Christopher St. John today, in my carriage with the curtains closed. He gave you a touching kiss goodbye and an open welcome to call on him for
anything
you might need.”
The violet eyes sparked dangerously. As always, she was magnificent in her fury. He could barely breathe from the sight of her.
“Ah so,” she murmured, her lush mouth drawn tight. “Of course. Despite your insatiable appetite for me, which often leaves me sore and exhausted, I find I still require further sexual congress. Perhaps you should commit me?”
Turning on her bare heel, she left.
Marcus stared after her, agape. He waited to see if she would return and when she did not, he pulled on his robe and followed her to her room.
She stood by the hall door in her dressing gown, telling a maid to bring up dinner and more headache powder. After sending the servant away, she slipped into her bed without looking at him.
“Deny it,” he growled.
“I see no need. You are decided.”
He stalked over to her, caught her by the shoulders, and shook her roughly. “Tell me what happened! Tell me it’s false.”
“But it’s not,” she said with arched brow, so damn collected and unruffled he wanted to scream. “Your men related the events exactly.”
He stared at her in shock, his hands on her shoulders beginning to shake. Afraid to do violence, Marcus released her and clasped his hands behind his back. “You have been meeting with St. John and yet you won’t tell me why. What reason would you have for seeing him?” His voice hardened ruthlessly. “For allowing him to kiss you?”
Elizabeth didn’t answer his questions. Instead, she asked one of her own. “Will you forgive me, Marcus?”
“Forgive you for what?” he yelled. “Tell me what you’ve done! Have you taken a fancy to him? Has he seduced you into trusting him?”
“And if he has?” she asked softly. “If I’ve strayed, but want you back, would you have me?”
His pride so revolted at the thought of her in the arms of another man that, for a moment, he thought he would be violently sick. Turning away, his fists clenched convulsively at his sides. “What are you asking?” he bit out.
“You know very well what I’m asking. Now that you are aware of my duplicity, will you discard me? Perhaps now you’ll send me away. Now that you no longer want me.”
“
Not want you
? I never cease wanting you. Every damned moment. Sleeping. Waking.” He spun about. “And you want me too.”
She said nothing, her lovely face a mask of indifference.
He could send her to the country with his family. Distance himself from her . . .
But the mere thought of her absence made him crazy. His ache for her was a physical pain. His pride crumbled beneath the demands of his heart.
“You will stay with me.”
“Why? To warm your bed? Any woman can do that for you.”
She was only an arm’s reach away and yet her icy demeanor had her miles from him.
“You are my wife. You will serve my needs.”
“Is that all I am to you? A convenience? Nothing more?”
“I wish you were nothing to me,” he said harshly. “God, how I wish you were nothing.”
To his amazement, her lovely face crumpled before his eyes. She slipped from the bed and sank to the floor. “Marcus,” she sobbed, her head bowing low.
He stood frozen.
She wrapped her arms around his legs, her head resting on his feet, her tears slipping between his toes. “I was with St. John today, but I didn’t stray from you. I could never.”
Near dizzy with confusion, he lowered himself slowly to the floor and took her in his arms. “Christ . . . Elizabeth . . .”
“I need you. I need you to breathe, to think, to
be
.” Her eyes, overflowing with tears, never left his face. Her hand moved to cup his cheek and he nuzzled into her touch, breathing in her scent.
“What is happening?” he asked, his voice hoarse from his clenched throat. “I don’t understand.”
She pressed her fingertips to his mouth. “I will explain.”
And she did, her voice breaking and faltering. When she fell silent, Marcus sat stunned.
“Why didn’t you confide in me before?”
“I didn’t know the whole of the story until this afternoon. And when I did know it, I couldn’t be certain how you would react. I was afraid.”
“You and I, we are bound.” He caught her hand and held it to his heart. “Whether we will it or no, we are in this together—our life, our marriage. You may not have wanted me, but you have me all the same.”
There was a rap at the door. Marcus cursed, then stood, pulling her up with him. Opening the portal, he accepted the dinner tray. “Tell the housekeeper to make preparations to pack.”
The servant bowed stiffly and left.
Elizabeth frowned at him, her porcelain skin pinked from crying. “What are you about?”
Setting the tray aside, he grabbed her hand and pulled her through the sitting room to his room. “We are retiring to the country with my family. I want you out of London and tucked away for a while until I can make sense of this muddle.” He closed the door behind them. “We have been concentrating on St. John. I felt secure enough staying in Town when he was the only perceived threat. Now I have no notion of whom to suspect. You are not safe here. It could be anyone. Someone we invited to our betrothal ball. An acquaintance who comes to call.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“But what of Parliament?” she asked.
He shot her an incredulous glance as he shrugged out of his robe. “Do you think I care more about Parliament than I do about you?”
“It is important to you, I know that.”
“You are important to me.” Moving to her, he loosened her dressing gown and pushed it to the floor, then divested her of her shift.
“I’m hungry,” she protested.
“So am I,” he murmured as he picked her up and carried her to the bed.
 
“I agree, leaving London would be wise.” Eldridge paced in front of the windows, his hands clasped behind his back, his tone low and distracted.
“There was no way to know,” Marcus said softly, understanding how difficult it must be to learn of a traitor in their midst.
“I should have seen the signs. St. John could not have eluded justice all these years without some assistance. I simply didn’t want to credit it. My pride wouldn’t allow it. And now, perhaps there is another among us, maybe more.”
“I say the time has come for us to be more persuasive with St. John. So far, he is the only individual who seems to know anything about Hawthorne or the bloody journal.”
Eldridge nodded. “Talbot and James can see to him. You see to Lady Westfield.”
“Send for me if there’s a need.”
“I probably shall.” Eldridge sank into his chair and sighed. “At the present moment, you are one of the few men I can trust.”
For Marcus, there was only one man he could trust to care first and foremost for Elizabeth, and when he left Eldridge, he went straight to him, and told him everything.
William stared down at Hawthorne’s book in his hands, and shook his head. “I never knew of this. I was not even aware that Hawthorne kept journals. And you.” He raised his gaze. “Working for Eldridge . . . How alike we are, you and I.”
“I suppose that is why we were once good friends,” Marcus said without inflection. His gaze drifted around the study, remembering when he had sat in this very room and arranged marriage settlements. So long ago. He stood, and prepared to depart. “Thank you for guarding the journal.”
“Westfield. Wait a moment.”
“Yes?” He paused midstep, and turned about.
“I owe you an apology.”
Every muscle in Marcus’s body stiffened.
“I should have heard your version of events before passing judgment.” Setting the book aside, William rose to his feet. “Explanations are perhaps worthless at this point, and in the end they are just excuses for why I failed you as a friend.”
Marcus’s anger and resentment ran deep, but it was a tiny spark of hope that prompted him to say, “I would like to hear them, in any case.”
William tugged at his cravat. “I had no notion of how to feel when Elizabeth first mentioned her interest in you. You were my friend, and I knew you were inherently a good man, but you were also a scoundrel. Knowing my sister’s fears, I thought you two would be a bad fit.” He shrugged, a sign not of nonchalance, but of sheepishness. “You’ve no idea what it is like to have a sister. How you worry for them, and want to protect them. And Elizabeth is more fragile than most.”
“I know.” Marcus watched his old friend begin to pace nervously, and knew from experience that when William moved so restlessly, he was in deadly earnest.
“She was mad for you, you know.”
“Was she?”
Snorting, William said, “Bloody hell, yes. She went on and on about you. And your eyes, and your blasted smiles, and a hundred other things I did not care to hear about. That is why, when I woke to her tearstained missive about your indiscretion, I took it to be true. A woman in love will believe anything her lover tells her. I assumed you were beyond redemption for her to run off as she did.” He stilled, and faced him. “I am sorry I assumed. I am sorry I did not go after her, and talk some sense into her. I am sorry that later, when I knew I had done you an injustice, I did not come to you and make amends. I allowed my pride to dictate my actions, and I lost you, the only brother I have ever known. I am most sorry about that.”
Marcus sighed inwardly, and walked to the window. He stared out at nothing, wishing he could give some glib rejoinder to defuse the tension. Instead, he gave the moment the attention it deserved.
“You are not entirely to blame, Barclay. Neither is Elizabeth. If I had told her about the agency, none of this would have happened. Instead, knowing how she longed for stability, I hid it from her. I wanted to have everything. I did not realize until too late that what I wanted and what I needed were two different things.”
“I know it is my commitment to Elizabeth that brought you here today, Westfield, but I want you to know that I am equally committed to you. If you ever require a second, I will not fail you again.”
Marcus turned, nodded, and welcomed the chance presented to him. “Very well, then,” he drawled, “we can call it even,
if
you forgive me for stealing Lady Patricia from you, although I think we both agree that your offense was greater.”
“You stole Janice Fleming, too,” William complained. Then he smiled. “Although I thrashed you for that one.”
“Your memory is faulty, old chap. It was you who ended up in the trough.”
“Good God, I forgot about that.”
Marcus twirled his quizzing glass by its ribbon. “You once took a dunking in the Serpentine, too.”
“You fell in first! I was attempting to assist you when you pulled me in.”
“You would not have wanted me to drown alone. What are friends for, if not to suffer together?”
William laughed. Then they shared a grin, and an unspoken agreement to truce. “Truly. What are friends for?”
Chapter 20
I
t was late afternoon on the second day of travel when they arrived at the ancestral home of the Ashford family. The compelling castle-like appearance of the massive mansion gave mute testimony to the perseverance of Marcus’s lineage. Turrets rose at varying heights across the great expanse of the stone exterior that sprawled for some distance to the left and right of the front door.
The three carriages and luggage cart slowed to a stop. Instantly the front door of the mansion flew open and a multitude of servants in Westfield livery descended the steps.
Alighting from the carriage, Elizabeth stared in awe. Marcus set his hand at her waist and stood beside her. His voice was low and intimate in her ear. “Welcome home.”
He kissed the sensitive part of her neck where her shoulder met her throat. “Wait until you see the inside,” he said with obvious pride.
As they entered the foyer, Elizabeth sucked in her breath with wonder. The ceiling vaulted away from them to dizzying heights, where a large crystalline chandelier hung from an impossibly long chain. Tapers gently lit alcoves located along the walls on either side, and the stone floor was covered in several immense Aubusson rugs.
Elizabeth set the pace for the group, walking slowly as she struggled to take in her surroundings. The sound of their muffled footsteps echoed hollowly through the vast space. In front of them, at the other end of the foyer, was a wall of French doors. When opened, they led out onto the large expanse of lawn just beyond.
But the focal point of the room was the immense split staircase curving gracefully along either wall to join at a massive landing above. From there the ascent branched off to hallways on the left and right, which led to the east and west wings.
Paul looked at her with a proud smile. “It is impressive, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth nodded with eyes wide. “To call it impressive wouldn’t do it justice.”
They made their way up the dual staircase on the left side while servants hauled up trunks on the right. Marcus drew to a halt in front of an open doorway and held out his hand to urge Elizabeth inside. Paul and Robert excused themselves, promising to see them at the evening meal.
The room she entered was massive and beautifully decorated in soft shades of light taupe and creamy blue. Striped silk curtains framed wide windows that overlooked the front circular drive. Two doorways flanked the sides of the room. Through the open door to the left she could see a sitting room and a decidedly masculine bedroom beyond that, and on the right, a nursery.
Marcus stood directly behind her. “Do you like it?”
“It’s perfect,” she acknowledged.
With a caressing smile and a mischievous wink, he left through the sitting room and headed to his room beyond.
Alone, Elizabeth took in the contents of the room with greater care, this time noting the little details. The small bookcase built into the bottom of the window seat held copies of her favorite books. The vanity drawers held her customary toiletries.
As he had for the nights they’d spent in the guesthouse, Marcus had thought of almost everything.
Removing her hat and gloves, she went in search of her husband. Stepping through the open double doors that led to his room, she found Marcus at the desk, sans coat and waistcoat. She approached him with a smile.
“Marcus,” she started gently. “Must you charm me every day?”
Rounding the desk, he wrapped her tightly in his arms, his mouth pressing a hard kiss to her forehead. “Of course.”
She hugged him back almost desperately, so grateful she couldn’t help telling him so.
“I’m relieved the house pleases you,” he said gruffly, his mouth nuzzling her skin. “I will give you a full tour before supper and in the morning the staff will line up for your inspection.”
“It is not so much the house that pleases me, as your thoughtfulness and care for my comfort.” Elizabeth kissed the sharp line of his jaw.
He squeezed her brutally close, and then set her away. Returning to his desk, he bent his head to the papers he pulled from a drawer.
Sighing at the loss of his embrace, she sank into a chair in front of the fireplace. “What are you doing?”
His gaze remained on the desktop. “Gathering my ledgers and notifying my steward that I’m in residence. I usually handle expenditures after the Season, but since we are here, I may as well begin now.”
“You are not decoding the journal?”
He glanced up and hesitated a moment before answering. “Keeping you and the journal in one location is foolhardy.”
She stilled, surprised. “Where is it? With Eldridge?”
“No.” He took a deep breath. “I placed it in Barclay’s care.”
“What?” she asked, shooting to her feet. “Why?”
“Because he is the only person besides St. John to have worked with Hawthorne closely on matters regarding the agency. And, at this moment, he’s one of the few people I can trust.”
“What about Mr. James?”
“I would have preferred Avery, but Eldridge has him occupied at the moment.”
Elizabeth’s stomach dropped. “St. John.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. We must know everything he knows.”
“What of Margaret? And the baby? The time draws near, William cannot be embroiled in this now.” Her hand lifted to shelter her racing heart. “What if they should be attacked, as I was? How could you do this, when I begged you not to?”
“Barclay has been prepared for attacks against himself and his wife since Hawthorne’s death.” He rounded the desk.
“And that is why my room was ransacked?” she snapped.
“Elizabeth—”
“Damn you. I trusted you.”
His voice came low and angry. “You entrusted me with your safety and I am seeing to it.”
“You don’t care about me,” she argued. “If you did, you would not have done something guaranteed to hurt me. They are all I have, to risk them this way—”
“They are not all that you have! You have me.”
She shook her head rapidly. “No. You belong to the agency. Everything you do is for them.”
“That’s not true, and well you know it.”
“I know I was wrong about you, wrong to trust you.” She brushed aside a tear with the back of her hand. “You deliberately said nothing to me.”
“Because I knew it would upset you. I knew you would not understand at first.”
“You lie. You failed to tell me because you knew it was
wrong
. And I will never understand. Never.”
Elizabeth swept around the settee toward the door.
“I am not done speaking, madam.”
“Then continue, my lord,” she threw over her shoulder, nearly running to her room to hide the tears that flowed freely. “I no longer wish to listen.”
William paced the length of his sitting room.
Margaret sighed, squirming into the pillows on the chaise, trying to find comfort for her aching back. “You knew nothing of this journal?”
“No.” He scowled. “But Hawthorne was an odd fellow. I’m not surprised to learn his father was mad. I’m certain Hawthorne was a bit touched as well.”
“How does that pertain?”
“There is something odd about this. I’ve gone over Westfield’s notes. He has already dedicated a great deal of his time to the study of the journal and all we’ve learned is some spotty descriptions of remote locations with no explanation. I cannot understand the purpose.”
Margaret rested her hands on her protruding stomach and smiled at the feel of her child moving in response to her touch. “So let’s set aside the contents of the book for the moment and concentrate on Hawthorne himself. How did he come to be your partner?”
“He was assigned to me by Eldridge.”
“Did he ask for you in particular?”
“I don’t believe so. If I recall correctly, he gave some tale about a grievance against St. John.”
“So he could just as easily have been assigned to Westfield, who was also investigating St. John.”
William plunged both hands into his golden hair. “Perhaps, but Westfield was frequently paired with Mr. James. I had not yet built a strong rapport with any other agents.”
“And you and Westfield never knew of one another’s activities, even though you were fast friends?”
“Eldridge does not—”
“—share such information, in case you are captured or tortured for information.” Margaret shuddered. “I thank God you no longer amuse yourself in that manner. Heaven only knows how Elizabeth manages. But then she’s far stronger than I. Is it possible Hawthorne married Elizabeth in the hopes he would learn something of Westfield’s activities?”
“No.” William sat next to her and placed his hand over hers. “He would not have known about Westfield. Just as I did not. I believe he married her to ensure he would remain my partner.”
“Ah, yes, that would have been wise. So we have Hawthorne, working with you to investigate St. John, but all the while his aim is to thwart you. He is married to Elizabeth and keeping a journal of cryptic text that so far has been revealed to be nothing of import. But in fact, it must be important enough to kill for.”
“Yes.”
“I’d say the best option would be to capture St. John and pair him with the journal, make him tell you what it says.”
His mouth curved ruefully. “According to Elizabeth, St. John claims only Hawthorne can decode it. But obviously that cannot be true, so Avery is tracking the pirate, who most inconveniently has fled London again. He is the key.”
“I worry for Elizabeth, you know I do, but I cannot help but wish Westfield had taken the journal elsewhere.”
“I know, love. If there had been another choice, I would have suggested it. But truly, despite his long-standing association with James and Eldridge, I am the only man he knows who can be trusted to care more for Elizabeth than the agency. And you and I have been cautious for so long. I couldn’t bear for our children to live in fear. We must end this.” His gaze pled for her understanding.
She cupped his cheek with her hand. “I’m glad you now know the truth about Hawthorne and St. John, to ease the guilt you’ve felt all these years. Perhaps Hawthorne’s death was inevitable, with his life so deeply entrenched in the criminal.” She moved her hand to place his against her belly and smiled as his blue eyes widened with awed pleasure at the feeling of a strong kick against his palm.
“Can you forgive me for accepting this task while you carry my child?” he asked hoarsely, bending to press an ardent kiss to her powdered forehead.
“Of course, my love,” she soothed. “You could not have done otherwise. And truly, in light of your lost friendship, I think it is a hopeful sign that Westfield came to you for help. We shall solve this puzzle together. Maybe then we can all find some peace.”
 
“Pray, tell me what is the matter, Elizabeth,” Elaine asked with concern. “It pains me to see you so distressed.”
“I should be in London now, not here.”
Elizabeth moaned as they sat in the family parlor, her thoughts filled with worry for William and Margaret. Marcus may have done what he thought was best, but he should have discussed it with her, allowed her to come to terms with it. He should have given her the opportunity to speak to William and thank him for his assistance. Her chest tightened as she thought of her brother, who loved her so much.
“I’m so sorry you are not happy here—”
“No, it’s not that,” she assured quickly. “I love it here. But there are . . . things that require my attention.”
Frowning, Elaine said, “I don’t understand.”
“I asked Westfield to do something important for me and he disregarded my wishes.”
“He must have had good reason,” Elaine soothed. “He adores you.”
Paul entered the parlor. “Why so glum?” he asked. Taking one look at Elizabeth’s tear-streaked face, he scowled. “Is it Marcus? Has he yelled at you again, Beth?”
BOOK: Sylvia Day - [Georgian 01]
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