My Brown-Eyed Earl (18 page)

 

Will strode into the Silver Fox, weaved through a maze of tables, and located Marina at a booth in the back, wearing black lace over her face. He should have predicted the veil, given his request for discretion and her flair for the dramatic.

“Marina,” he said, taking a seat opposite her. “Thank you for coming.”

“It's good to see you, Will.” She lifted the veil over her head and let her gaze rove over him. “Even if the circumstances aren't what I would have wished.”

“You're looking well.” He hated that he was required to make polite conversation when all he wanted to know was whether or not she was with child. Now. But he knew better than to rush Marina. She would reveal all—when she was ready. So, he ignored the churning of his stomach, waved a barmaid over, and ordered a round of drinks.

“I've a new beau,” she said with a shrug. “He lacks your skill, but he is young and eminently trainable.”

Will raised his glass of ale and smiled. “Congratulations. I wish you both well.”

“He is aware of our past, of course. It's hardly a secret. But he's a jealous sort and would not be pleased to see us together.”

“He sounds like an insecure pup,” Will teased.

She sipped her sherry thoughtfully. “Perhaps. But I will make it work to my advantage.”

“I have no doubt you will.” She had more acumen than most merchants. “I appreciate you meeting me in spite of your reservations. The matter you mentioned—it must be of some import.” Will braced himself.

“It's hard to say,” she mused. “But I will give you the facts and leave it to you to decide.”

Relaxing a little, he nodded. “Go on.”

“Two nights ago, while at Vauxhall Gardens, I was approached by a man wearing a mask. He was tall and light-haired.” She thought for a moment. “And dressed like a gentleman.”

“I trust you were not a victim of untoward behavior.” The pleasure gardens were rife with it.

“No,” Marina said. “But the man seemed to know who I was, and he inquired after you.”

Will narrowed his eyes. “Really? How so?”

“He asked if it was true that you and I had parted ways. Normally, I would have refused to discuss such a personal matter, but the punch had loosened my tongue.”

“How did you respond?”

She waved a hand. “I told him we were no longer seeing one another.”

“Did he press you for any other information?”

“Yes, and this is the part I found most strange. He wanted to know if you had taken in a pair of twin girls. I'd told him I'd heard the rumor but didn't know if it was true.” She raised a brow at him. “Is it?”

He nodded. “They're only six. And quite a handful.”

Marina shuddered as though he'd confessed to taking in not two small girls, but a pair of goats. “I would ask what in heaven possessed you to do such a thing, but I'm not certain I want to know.”

“You don't know the man's identity?”

She shook her head regretfully. “No. When I asked for his name, he merely said he was
an interested party
.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He asked about the twins and your level of attachment to them…” Marina traced the rim of her glass with her fingertip. “… and their mother.”

“The devil you say,” Will murmured, more to himself than to Marina.

“I told him I did not know and that it was none of my concern. Or his.”

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. Marina really was a decent sort.

“It was the truth—even if he didn't care to hear it. He said that if I were to acquire information that was useful to him, he would pay handsomely for it.”

The hairs on the back of Will's neck stood on end. “Jesus. How are you to contact him?”

“When I asked, he said that I should not worry about it. He would seek me out when the opportunity arose.”

“I don't like the sound of that, Marina. Did he threaten you in any way?”

“No. As I said, he dressed and spoke like a gentleman, but he had a ruthlessness about him. Something in his tone and demeanor made me shiver.”

“You should not go out alone for the time being. Tell your beau you require an escort everywhere you go.”

“I will have a care for my safety,” she said vaguely. “And if he should approach me again, I shall send word.”

“Thank you. I'm sorry that you're involved in this at all. I don't know why anyone would be curious about my relationship to the girls. They're simply my—”

“No.” Marina stopped him, holding up a hand. “I would prefer not to know. That way, if I'm interrogated, it will be impossible for me to reveal anything that I shouldn't—even if I
have
partaken of the punch.”

“Anyone who dares to interrogate you shall deal with me,” Will said. “But you need not worry about revealing too much. I have no secrets.”

“No?” Ever the coquette, the hint of a smile played about her lips. “According to the rumors, there is also a governess—one of Wiltmore's Wallflowers. Perhaps she is not destined to be a wallflower for long?”

Damn, but this town loved gossip. “I've a feeling you'll know the answer before I do.” He threw back the rest of his ale and clunked the glass on the table. “I must go. Allow me to see you safely home.”

Marina smiled and gracefully draped the black lace over her face. “It warms me to know that chivalry is not entirely dead.”

*   *   *

Meg sat on the edge of her bed, hands trembling as she unfolded Charlotte's letter. She hadn't expected a reply tonight—it was already quite late. But the footman who'd delivered Meg's note was friendly with one of Lord Torrington's kitchen maids, and they'd enjoyed a brief visit while he waited to see if Charlotte wished to respond.

And she had.

Dearest Meg,

I do not know anyone by the name of Marina but have made discreet inquiries. It seems that until quite recently, she was Lord Castleton's mistress. I'm sorry to relate such shocking news, but the urgency of your note suggested you'd want to know. My source informs me that they are no longer seeing one another. I do hope you find this information to be more helpful than distressing. Please write me again when you are able.

Fondly,

Charlotte

Mistress.
Meg pressed a hand to her roiling belly. How could he arrange a meeting with his mistress just one day after the evening they'd spent in the garden where he'd … and she'd … Dear
God
, what had she done?

She'd been foolish to trust him so quickly. A master of manipulation, he'd seduced her with pretty words and wicked caresses. She'd willingly—nay, eagerly—surrendered to desire.

A mistake she would not make again.

After locking the door to her bedchamber, she hauled her hideous gown over her head and threw it on the floor. She wrestled with the laces of her wretched corset, wiggled out of it, and tossed it on top of her dress. In no mood to fold or hang her clothes, she simply went to her washstand, scrubbed and dried her face, and crawled beneath the covers of her bed, still seething with anger.

An hour later, after she'd thought of half a dozen methods of revenge, most involving highly creative forms of torture, a soft knock sounded at her door.

Heart pounding, she bolted upright. Assuring herself that the door was locked, she went perfectly still, listening for sounds from the hallway.

It had to be Will. The twins always slept soundly through the night, and no one else had cause to disturb her.

The knock sounded again, slightly louder. She pressed her lips firmly together.

“Meg?” he whispered through the door. “Can you hear me?”

She didn't make a sound.

Another knock. “Meg, are you awake? I need to speak with you.”

She doubted very much that what he wanted to do was speak, for conversation could surely wait for the light of day.

After a moment, the door handle clicked, as though he were testing to see if it was locked. She clutched the sheets to her chest, her blood boiling.

When she heard the doorknob rattle, followed by his muttered curse, she smiled to herself.

What kind of a cad spent the evening with his mistress—or ex-mistress, if one cared to split hairs—and then had the audacity to seek out another lady in her bedchamber?

He did not deserve the courtesy of a reply. Let him wonder and wait, for her silence would sting more than an outright rejection. Besides, if she went to the door and told him to go away, her voice might crack. Or her resolve might waver.

And though she had very little, she did have her pride.

Before long, she heard him stride down the hall, away from her room.

So … he'd given up rather easily, which was certainly for the best. She ignored the slight disappointment in her chest and slipped back beneath the covers.

It had been a long day, and finally, it was over. Tomorrow, she would figure out how to deal with the earl. Once, she would have hurled a string of insults at him, walked out of Castleton House, and never looked back. But now her salary was keeping food in her sisters' bellies. And even if money weren't an issue, she'd become attached to the twins.

Diana had even confided in her this afternoon, and now … well, everything had changed.

Outside her window, moonlight silhouetted leafy boughs shivering from a strong, sudden gust. She listened to the halting patter of rain beginning to hit the panes, wondering if Beth and Julie heard it as they lay in their beds, too. Her sisters had always gathered in Meg's bed during a storm, not because any of them were frightened, but because they wanted to savor the raw power of it together—every lightning flash, thunder boom, and wind burst. Though Meg was several blocks away from them now, it seemed to her that the sound of the driving rain brought them together in a way … and calmed her. Her eyelids grew heavy; sleep beckoned.

Crack
.

Dear Jesus. Meg sprang out of her bed and ran to the window. It sounded as though a large branch had splintered off of a tree, and now there was another sound above the din—a voice shouting. Pulse racing, she pressed her forehead to the pane and searched the dark night. The tree outside her window still stood, its leaves twisting in the torrent.

A dream, perhaps. The kind that happens in the twilight just before sleep that can seem quite real. It must have been a dream.

Except then, she heard her name. “Meg!” Muffled but unmistakable, a man called out to her. And she was fairly certain he did so from the garden.

“Blast it all,” she muttered, hauling up the window sash. Madness to do such a thing in the middle of a storm, but she'd detected an urgency in the voice. Rain pelted her face and drenched her chemise as she leaned out the window to peer at the garden below.

And then she saw the hands. Male hands, white-knuckled, gripping the sill outside her window.

 

Chapter
NINETEEN

 

Meg nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight of a man dangling from her sill, but she managed to choke back the scream in her throat.

“Meg, it's me, Will.” He sounded winded. “Back away from the window. I'm going to hoist myself up.”

“Please tell me you're standing on a ladder,” she begged.

“No.” He grunted. “Stand back.”

She gripped his wrists, slick with rain. “I can't. I'm afraid you'll fall.”

“Stand. Back.”

Her belly in knots, she stepped aside, watching him inch his hands to one end of the brick sill. “I'm going for help,” she said.

“No. Time.”

Blast it all, she had to do something. Frantic, she ran to her bed, yanked off the blanket, and grabbed the sheet beneath. She hastily knotted one end around her waist and prepared to throw the other out the window. “Hold on, I'm coming.”

But just then, a large boot landed on the windowsill with a
thud
.

The rest of his large body soon followed, and he tumbled onto the floor of her room, soaking wet and gasping for air.

“What the devil do you think you're doing?” she cried. Tears burned her eyes and her throat constricted. “You almost … you could have …
Damn
you, William Ryder.” Crumpling to the floor, she began to sob.

“Meg, I'm fine. Everything is fine.” He scooped the blanket off the floor, draped it over her shoulders, and pulled her against his side. “I'm going to close the window. Just sit here for a moment and try to calm yourself.”

Hackles rising, she blinked slowly. “Calm myself? Don't you
dare
tell me to calm myself,” she warned, “unless you wish for me to push you back out that window.”

“Very well,” he chuckled, infuriating her even more. “If you prefer to remain enraged, that is entirely your prerogative.”

In two strides, he reached the window, then lowered the sash. Without the wind and driving rain assaulting them, the room suddenly seemed smaller, cozier, more intimate—alarmingly so.

He lit the lamp beside her bed before returning to her side, on the floor. “The branch I was on broke,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

“Only an idiot would climb a tree in the middle of a storm.” She was still crying, damn it all, and she had no idea why.

“I cannot disagree. Although, in my defense, the storm began
after
I was halfway up the trunk.” He slicked his rain-soaked hair back from his face and looked down at his palms, which were scraped raw. “I'm sorry I frightened you.”

“Why?” She cradled one of his open hands in hers. “Why would you do it?”

“You wouldn't answer the door.”

“
No
,” she said, throwing his hand back in his lap. “You may
not
blame your little brush with death on me. You had other options available to you. Such as waiting until morning—which, incidentally, is what a proper gentleman would have done.”