Revealed (29 page)

“Can’t . . . can’t we enlist your brother to assist us? You did say he knows about you.”

Marcus looked askance for a moment, his brows coming together in a knot. “Of course, my brother will be . . . assisting. I just don’t know how much.”

“Because of . . . his leg?” she asked, trying to guess his thoughts. Obviously, something about Byrne had Marcus worried, but she doubted it was as simple as his physical capabilities.

But Marcus jumped at the opportunity she afforded. “Yes, because of his leg. It’s an injury he sustained, er, helping the Blue Raven on the Continent, and . . . he’s not completely healed.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry—” Phillippa began.

“Yes, you do,” Marcus countered, but his smile told her to continue.

“Your brother, Byrne—he looks . . .”

“Like death warmed over?”

“Unhealthy,” she supplied diplomatically. “Surely it would be wise to let him rest. Has a doctor examined him?”

Marcus guffawed at that, causing Phillippa to lean forward and shush him.

“Yes, he’s been seen by doctors. And yes, he should be resting, attempting to heal, but he refuses. And I’d rather him not be in town by himself. Besides, he knows I could never stop him. Or protect him.”

Marcus hung his head in his hands at this admission, and for the first time, Phillippa saw just how tired Marcus was, too.

Not just by the evening, as his head had not yet touched a pillow either, but by the whole endeavor. By the strains of a life lived in secret and the trouble it caused for those around him.

Gently she reached out, smoothed her hand over his head. It was a gesture of comfort, of support. He leaned into her hand, taking her caresses as offered. Her forehead came to meet his.

His head came up, and he met her eyes.

There it was again. That heat. It held them both frozen for a minute, a century.

And then Marcus leaned forward, his breath, mingling with hers, warm against her cheek. Unconsciously, she licked her lips. She saw his gaze flick to her tongue, his eyes going black.

And if he would lean just that much closer, Phillippa would not be the one to stop him.

But he didn’t.

He pulled back, just barely, keeping her in his trance, as he spoke, his voice husky and low.

“Phillippa, I . . .”

“Yes,” she said, not knowing the question, but willing that to be her answer.

“I . . . wanted to ask you about your husband.”

“My husband?” she pulled back, confused, breaking the spell that surrounded them.

“I—I was given to understand that you are very devoted to his memory.”

“Marcus, please don’t ask me about my husband,” she said, the exhaustion again taking hold of her body.

“It’s just—if you were so devoted to him—and I know nothing of the man—but why Broughton?”

Phillippa stared at Marcus, as he stumbled on.

“Why let him into your life? Are . . . are they similar men?”

Phillippa leaned back in her chair, setting herself away from him. She lifted her jaw and cast a cold glare. The message was clear. How dare he? How
dare
he question this part of her life? And to think she had just moments ago been so willing to lean into him, to caress him, to let him . . .

“Marcus,” she repeated, her voice ice, “do not ask me about my husband.”

After holding her gaze a beat, he nodded, defeated.

“Come,” he said, standing. “You should be in your bed. And I should be in mine.”

As he ushered her to the door, Phillippa could only fleetingly think that, had he kept his questions to himself, they would be otherwise.

But the morning came—as it often does in the summer in the country—despicably cheerful, sunny, and crisp. And this day found a good portion of the Ton, who had little to no interest in seeing the sun rise in their regular life, awake and alert with the excitement of what was to come.

The Hampshires’ racing pavilion was a rarity on a private estate. Most breeding farms had spacious fields for cross-country running, along with a practice track, but their horses were taken to the races. The Hampshires’ breeding program was so vast and superior, they had no qualms about bringing the races to them.

The pavilion itself was a white oak construction, built with all the comforts of a formal parlor, but with a much more pointed view. Lord Hampshire was a generous man, fitting the pavilion with bench seating for the local townsfolk, as they enjoyed wagering their pennies as much as the gentlemen enjoyed wagering pounds. And Lady Hampshire was just as generous to her friends, having designed boxes removed from the local townsfolk, outfitted with every possible convenience, from working fireplaces for those cold mornings, to cushioned settees for the small canine friend, to a bellpull to call a servant to cater to the smallest request.

By nine in the morning, the first of the races had begun, those that had not arrived at the party the night before trickled in, and the servants served hot breakfast and tea to the ladies and gentlemen in those highly comfortable boxes.

By one in the afternoon, the three-year-olds had taken the stage, the entire Ton now firmly in residence. The races kept the guests enthralled, and the refreshments kept them enthusiastic as Lord Hampshire trotted out his stable’s prized Thoroughbreds. There was conversation to the right of them about lineages and lines. There was conversation to the left about the packed English dirt the beasts did their mortal challenge on. But Marcus and Byrne found their conversation far less equestrian.

They had come out to stand among the crowds gathered at the edge of the racing track. Many other gentlemen had, in their enthusiasm, left the ladies in the boxes and come to see the horseflesh up close. Most had begun to divest themselves of their jackets in the heat and excitement of the day, including Marcus. But Byrne burrowed and shivered in his overcoat.

“A lovely bit of breeding, I won’t deny,” Byrne was saying, hiding his pale face from the sun in the high collar of his coat. “But I wouldn’t gamble so much on her.”

Marcus set his jaw tighter. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you weren’t speaking about the races. Now,” he continued, steering the conversation back to what was at hand, “Fieldstone just arrived, as did Lord Whitford—he was the unfortunate host of the banquet, if you recall—Sterling is here, has been since last night, of course, but he didn’t emerge from his rooms last night.”

“How do you know? Did you keep watch all night?” Byrne asked with a sneer.

“I placed a hair in his doorjamb. It would have fallen if he had opened the door. I passed his door at six this morning, and the hair was still in place.” It was a simple trick, one Byrne had taught him, and as such he couldn’t fault its logic.

“Oh, then where were you last night?” Byrne inquired, false innocence. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

In order to ease the crush of guests, Byrne had agreed to stay in Marcus’s room, giving up the quarters that Phillippa had set aside for Mariah and Graham. This earned him unending gratitude and only one small glance from their hostess. If Lady Hampshire thought Phillippa had a potential lover in Marcus Worth, it simply meant he would be coming to her room, not the other way around. Besides, everyone knew that the Marquis of Broughton was her real conquest.

As Byrne was more than willing to remind him.

“You might have been with Mrs. Benning, since everyone knows that she found herself suspiciously without her bed partner last night,” he said maliciously.

For indeed, that seemed to be the main source of gossip among the guests that day. Phillippa had cried a headache and retired early. Broughton stayed in the drawing room all of three minutes after the gentlemen joined the ladies, to retire as well, he stated (or slurred, depending upon honesty). Those without knowledge of the contents of Broughton’s toasting beverage speculated with glee as to why the social world’s two most celebrated and attractive members would retire so very early.

Imagine those gossipers’ disappointment when Broughton’s valet whispered to the underbutler, who told the cook, who told the upstairs maids, who told all of the other guests’ valets and ladies’ maids that the Marquis of Broughton had done nothing more scandalous than fall asleep before his shoes hit the floor!

And that the lady, having waited up well past three, finally gave up and went to bed herself. (Phillippa’s maid was either a heavy sleeper, or more discreet than Broughton’s valet. Very likely both.)

But whatever the gossip, Marcus was determined to ignore it and his brother, focusing on the work.

“I was searching the house and grounds,” Marcus replied tightly.

“Did you find anything?”

“No, this place is entirely too large to contain by myself.”

“That’s what you have me for,” Byrne quipped.

“Do I? Tell me, how useful do you find yourself passed out drunk before eleven?” Marcus spat coldy.

“My leg was hurting,” Byrne replied defensively.

“So you medicate it with a vat of wine?”

“At least I got some sleep. Which is of a great deal more use than stalking Mrs. Benning and drugging her lover.”

“Dammit, Byrne!” Marcus spat, shocking not only his brother, but several of the gentlemen around them. “I thought you might believe me,” he whispered, after prying eyes and ears had turned away. “I thought, you of all people, had perceived the seriousness of the situation.”

Byrne’s jaw was set, his face cold and immobile in the offending sunlight.

“Can’t you feel it?” Marcus continued. “There is something going on here. He—Laurent—is here somewhere. And I may not fully understand what he’s planning, but it’s not a damn tea party.”

Marcus knew that Byrne could feel it. He had to. His instincts, however rusted by time and addled by laudanum and alcohol, were too good. It wasn’t anything overt. No one in a black cloak, twirling a mustache while acting in a shady manner. It was more a sense of things being slightly off. A different face in the crowd, looking around too nonchalantly. A water barrel placed to one side, just barely out of alignment with the other water barrels for the horses. Marcus had already inspected those barrels, already tried to memorize that different face, but still the cold, tense air—palpable to some, ignored by most—clung to the day’s proceedings.

Every time the racers came round the track, every time the crowd erupted into cheers, it was another tick of the clock. It wasn’t the who or what that had Marcus on edge. It was the when.

And try as he might to deny it, Marcus knew Byrne felt it, too.

“Even if I could tell that something was going to occur,” his brother finally said, “how am I supposed to take these circumstances seriously, when you are not?”

Marcus turned in shock to Byrne. “Not . . . not taking it seriously?” he sputtered. “Byrne, I’m the only one who ever has! How dare you—”

“I saw you.” Byrne interrupted. “At supper, last night. Before, too. You couldn’t keep your eyes off her.”

Marcus went still. “Phillippa is . . . she’s not . . .”

“You’re mad for her. You compromised your entire mission to slip your rival for her affections a sleeping draught. I wanted to believe you, when you said she was invaluable to your plans. But you can’t be serious about catching Laurent as long as you are using the circumstances to get Phillippa Benning into bed.”

Marcus set his jaw tight. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“No?” Byrne replied. “Then where were you last night? You didn’t spend the whole time patrolling the grounds. You cleared your path, are you telling me you
didn’t
go see her?”

Marcus couldn’t deny this. And maybe it was the fact that it was Byrne speaking, maybe it was the draining effort involved in keeping his eyes trained for mischief on absolutely no sleep, but Marcus couldn’t deny the sense that was being made, either.

Because the content of their conversation last night had hardly been about the weather. It had hardly been about Laurent either.

And all he kept thinking about was the answer to his question he had not received. About how close her skin had been to his and how keeping her close, touching her, having her hand in his hair felt so very, very right. And then he had stupidly asked her about her husband, about Broughton, and he had, in that moment, forgotten his purpose.

Phillippa Benning was an asset, a brilliant one. Her connections, her gift of memory. But last night, she had also proved herself to be a liability. To him.

“Nothing happened last night,” Marcus said finally to a waiting Byrne.

Byrne simply patted Marcus on the shoulder. “You need to sleep,” he said. “I’ll keep my eyes on Sterling, or Fieldstone, or Crawley, and whoever else comes by.”

Marcus met Byrne’s eyes and saw the resolution, the purpose.

“I won’t disappoint you,” Byrne said, seriously. “I promise.”