Revealed (23 page)

“Its all right.” She said softly, a hint of humor in her voice. “You have expressed your excuse most sincerely. And I managed to secure an invitation for you to the Racing Party.”

“Did you? Your powers of persuasion are faultless. Dare I ask how it was accomplished?” He smiled and then winced slightly. It seemed apparent that his bruise was more painful than he was letting on.

“Believe it or not, you have Broughton to thank for it,” she replied tartly.

“Do I?” his eyebrow shot up.

“Yes,” she said, petting Bitsy as he fussed for a moment, waking himself up. “Lady Hampshire mentioned the number of young unmarried ladies she was inviting, and he bemoaned the fact that she had invited only a fraction of that number of single men. He said he needed more bachelors there as protection.”

“Oh, well, I’m terribly happy to serve as a bodyguard to His Highness, the Marquis of Broughton.” Marcus said snidely, eliciting a smile from Phillippa.

“Lady Hampshire was very eager to correct her mistake and provided you an accommodation.” She looked at him then, watched him as he stared down the length of the winding body of water the planner of Hyde Park had long ago named after the slithering reptile it so resembled.

London was a lot like the Serpentine, she reflected. Lovely on the surface, but winding, changing, and slippery. Hard to navigate. And Marcus stood at its head like a rock. And just as obscure.

“Is this what you dragged me out of my warm bed for? To show me why you missed yesterday?” she asked curtly, returning her attention to the green, opaque water. “How did it happen?”

“Stupidly.” And that seemed to be all he was willing to say about his appearance. “But it’s not the only reason I asked you to meet me.”

“There’s more?” she perked up.

“I thought you might like to try an exercise with me.” He said, and for the first time, he smiled without pain.

“An exercise?” she queried skeptically. “Mr. Worth, I haven’t attempted exercise since a particularly sadistic governess thought it healthful for young girls to practice swimming.”

“Swimming?”

“It was horrid; she made me go in circles until my arms ached. I became so brown and my hair such a tangle that my mother saw my appearance and fired her on the spot.” Phillippa smirked. “Now, what torturous exercise are you trying to inflict upon me?”

“Nothing quite so horrific as swimming,” he promised. “Would you care to sit down?” He guided her over to a nearby wrought-iron bench overlooking the footbridge that was banked by willow trees. The sun was rising higher into the sky, evaporating the offending dew and forcing open the budding lilies that turned to face its powerful rays.

“I was wondering,” Marcus began, folding his long frame down onto the short bench, and leaning forward on his knees, “how good your eyes are.”

“My eyes?” she inquired. “My eyes are fine. I’ve never needed spectacles like some people I could mention.”

“Yes, yes, your eyes themselves are perfect,” he replied, “but I meant to ask how well you remember what you see.”

“I remember everything I see,” she said matter-of-factly. “I do not brag,” she replied to his unspoken skepticism. “It’s the truth.”

“Prove it,” he said and covered her eyes with his large, warm hand. “Tell me what you see.”

“I see the inside of your hand, you annoying man.”

He laughed aloud at that and removed his hand. “All right then, try this. Look out at the lake for ten seconds, then close your eyes and list every man that you see.”

“But it’s ten in the morning!” she protested. “No one I know is awake. All these people are unknown to me . . .”

“Precisely why I chose such an obnoxious hour. You don’t have to name them, just describe them,” he coaxed, his voice a singsong of delightful coercion.

Since she was awake anyway, and in the park, and it would only take ten seconds, Phillippa decided to oblige him.

Normally, she never tried to memorize things, she just did. Information that had been said to her once or a coat someone had worn would pop back into her memory precisely as it had been when she first encountered it, and she was invariably always correct. But now, she concentrated. She watched the young ladies, middle-class by the looks of their neat poplin skirts, as they carried baskets of market goods behind their mother. She watched as young men of means on horses indulged in early morning rides before the fashionable hour took over the entire length of the Serpentine. She looked on as an old man sat across the water, reading a newspaper and smoking a pipe.

“Ten seconds,” Marcus stated, interrupting her concentration and promptly leaning over to cover her eyes with his hand.

“Right,” he said, so close to Phillippa’s ear, he only had to breathe his words. “Tell me; how many men did you see?”

“Fourteen,” she replied promptly.

He paused a moment, obviously surprised at the speed of her response, and possibly doing a quick count. (Phillippa couldn’t be sure, as her eyes were covered.) “Nay, there are thirteen,” he replied.

“Nay, there are fourteen.”

“Fourteen—describe them for me.”

“There are two young men on horseback, although they are likely out of view now; they went beyond the willow tree about seven seconds into my watching. There is the gentleman seated to our right, across the footbridge, reading the newspaper and smoking a pipe. There are the three clerks, who by their speed I think had taken a short break from their work and are now late getting back. Two men of the guard are behind us, but that’s not surprising, as Lancaster Gate is behind us. Two footmen crossed our path, a young boy with his mother—not a man, I know, but I count him as he’s male—my driver, my manservant, both riding the box of my carriage, and you.”

He uncovered her eyes, and Phillippa blinked in the new sunlight and smiled brilliantly up at a nonplussed Marcus Worth.

“Fourteen,” he conceded.

“You didn’t count the boy, did you?”

“No,” he replied somewhat sheepishly, “I neglected to count myself.”

“Oh, Mr. Worth,” she said consolingly, patting his hand. “I promise you, you are as much a man as that boy.” Her eyes glinted wickedly. “You shouldn’t sell yourself so short.”

“Ha-ha,” he replied, but she noticed he didn’t draw his hand away from hers.

She grinned. “This is fun, but I have to ask, why are we employed in this exercise?”

Now he did draw back his hand, ran it through his hair as if he still expected there to be more of it. Then he caught her gaze with his and held it.

“Because I want you to be prepared,” he intoned seriously.

“Prepared?” she repeated, her voice more quiet than she’d like, a product of a small sensation of dread.

Marcus stared out at the water, refusing to face her questioning eyes. And when he spoke, it was in flat monotones, uninflected, unfeeling.

“What are my chances at convincing you to come down with a cold and having to forgo the Hampshires’ Racing Party?” he asked.

“Nil,” she replied. “Lady Hampshire would never forgive me, especially when I’ve already made entreaties on your behalf, and if you think I am going to sit back and watch Lady Jane Cummings get a leg up with the Hampshires . . .” Her voice trailed off when he shot her a quelling look, just before he went back to staring at the lake.

“I don’t suppose locking you in your house for your own good would work either?”

“Not if you mean to attend the Gold Ball at Regent’s Park as well,” she intoned a little heatedly. If he was trying to scare her, it wasn’t working. So far, it had only served to make her angry. But still, she snuggled Bitsy a little closer to her chest.

“Precisely,” was his calm reply. “I cannot remove you from the danger at hand, particularly when I don’t know from which direction it will strike.”

“And particularly when I am your ticket into the places where you think the danger will occur,” she pronounced archly.

“So I want you to be prepared,” he spoke seriously. “I know your memory is good; you have surprised me with it more than once. But I want you to be able to ferret out the necessary information from the rest of the noise surrounding it.”

For the first time, Phillippa swallowed some of her anger and allowed a teaspoon of fear to creep in. But then she straightened her spine and her resolve. “All right, then,” she said brightly. “Teach me. What should I be looking for?”

He turned to her then and apparently saw nothing in her countenance that bespoke hesitation, for he allowed the smallest of grins when he held her gaze.

“Come on,” she coaxed, “what am I looking for? Sly looks between political enemies? Dirty French expatriates trying to sneak into the party via the garden? Whether or not Lady Hampshire’s silk is imported or hand-sewn?”

“Tell me”—and the entire time he held her gaze, his brown eyes darkened to brooding, thanks to his wound—“how many ladies here are wearing aprons.”

She did not turn her head, his eyes locked with hers would not have allowed it. Without looking out over the moving population of the north end of the Serpentine, she replied, “Three. Two maids crossed our path, and there’s a woman with a fruit cart at the park’s entrance.”

Pleased with that answer, he proceeded to ask her rapid-fire questions, and she proceeded to answer them, without checking her surroundings to see if her answers were correct.

“How many men wore gloves?”

“All of them, except the boy and one of the clerks.”

“How many pieces of paper did you see?”

“The old man’s newspaper, the boy had a scrap in hand, and there was a pamphlet sitting alone on the bench opposite.”

“Which of the men is carrying a knife?”

She sucked in her breath at that.

“Ah . . . the boy,” she replied, for the first time unsure.

“Why do you think that?” he asked gently.

“I . . . I don’t know. I guessed that out of all the men we’ve seen, the boy would be the most likely to have a pocketknife or some such thing. The guards have swords, of course, and my driver a whip, but those aren’t knives.”

“Mrs. Benning—Phillippa. I need you to be sure. You cannot guess. Understood?”

She nodded, and watched as he leaned back against the bench. The morning was becoming warmer, and Phillippa allowed the leashed and bouncy Bitsy on the ground, where he sniffed at the dirt and the grass and eventually settled on Marcus’s boots. Then Phillippa gave in to indulgence and relaxed her rigid posture enough to lean back against the bench as well.

“I might be more adept at knowing what I see if you tell me what I’m looking for,” she said softly.

“Beg pardon?” His brows came down.

“Laurent,” she stated, and then, knowing she was covering tricky territory, chose her next words with care. “If I knew what he looked like, what he sounds and acts like—you do suspect Laurent of being the maker of this mischief, correct?”

Marcus nodded, but added, “He in collusion with another, possibly, as you so cunningly pointed out the other night.”

“Then tell me about him. Laurent. Nemeses likely know more about each other than anyone else, after all.”

“I’d ask if that held true for you, but I fear the lengthy explanation of your hatred of Lady Jane and vice versa. No, Mrs.—Phillippa. You’re right to ask. It’s high time I told you what I suspect, if only as a part of your preparations.”

He took a deep breath and readjusted himself on the bench, maybe so he wouldn’t have to look at her, maybe so his hand would rest ever so close to hers on the wrought-iron beams. Even if neither were his aim, he achieved both.

“I cannot say if I know more about Laurent than anyone else; I certainly know more than most, though. And in point of fact, Lord Whitford’s explanation of Laurent’s upbringing is mostly true to what we know. Of course, we didn’t learn the man’s name until the pistols fell into British possession.

“He’s a very refined man, but cold, too. He enjoys the finer things in life. I have no doubt he would be very taken with your”—Marcus waved his hand vaguely in her direction—“sophistication.”

Phillippa shrugged. Naturally.

“He was born into aristocracy, but due to the Revolution had that legacy ripped away,” Marcus continued. “He spent a certain amount of time in England, and I suspect, although I don’t know it for a fact, that he can mimic an upper-class British accent cleanly. But to do so would be to wear the dirt of his enemy, so I doubt he employs it unless necessary.

“I know you think yourself familiar with mortal battle, considering your relationship with Lady Jane, but Phillippa, I beg you to heed me. Laurent is vicious. He will kill me, you, and anyone who gets in his way.” Marcus reached out and touched her shoulder gently, but his hand shook from his restraint.

“Do you know what he looks like?” Phillippa asked, knowing that he should, given that the Blue Raven and Laurent’s final battle had been face-to-face.

“Pale. Dark hair. Eyes that will look right through you,” he responded dully, as if reciting from a textbook rather than his own experience.

He has to sound that way, Phillippa thought. It’s the only way to survive the memories.

Phillippa wrenched her gaze away from his, and again took in the calming vista of the park in the morning. The man with the newspaper continued to read. The young gentlemen riding their horses had looped back and were again by the willow tree. Not one had any clue what they were discussing, what darkness lurked at the corners of their daily lives.

“He sounds rather like a vampire.” Phillippa shivered, but Marcus made no reply. “I’m due at your brother’s,” Phillippa said abruptly, shocking Marcus back to the present.

“My brother’s?”

“Mariah invited me to help organize donations for the orphanage, and I thought since I was forced out of my comfortable bed this morning in any case . . .”

That earned her a smile, albeit a reluctant one.