Revealed (39 page)

“No.” Marcus replied sharply, not looking up from his desk.

Byrne glanced up from the
Times
. “I know things went pear-shaped this weekend, but I will admit she kept her head. And she has a decent memory; you were right about that. She’s proven useful, Marcus.”

“I said no,” Marcus repeated. Seeing that his brother was not going to take that for an answer, he sighed, took off his spectacles, and rubbed his tired eyes. “This situation has proven far too dangerous, as my shoulder can attest. I’m not involving her any further.”

Byrne seemed to want to reply, but he thought better of it. He took his cane, started rolling it between his hands, contemplating.

“What’s the other half of the list?”

“Hmm?” Marcus looked up from his desk.

“The Gold Ball at Regent’s Park and the Benning Ball. What do they have to do with anything?”

“I . . . I don’t know.” Marcus replied. “I just know that they are the most anticipated events of the Season.”

“Well, the Gold Ball is sponsored by the Crown. One assumes that security there would be tight.”

“But I don’t think it is,” Marcus argued. “It’s a masquerade, held outdoors. Even with the Palace Guard on hand to protect the Regent, how secure could the place be?” Marcus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Wait. Could it be . . . ? “That’s it.”

Byrne ceased rolling his cane between his hands.

“They’re going to do something while the Prince is there,” Marcus explained, coming to his feet. “The sentiment being what it is, and Prinny being who he is, if something were to happen, he’d
demand
war.”

“Wonderful. What are they going to do?” Byrne asked.

That stilled Marcus.

“And who are
they
?” he continued. “Who is Laurent conspiring with?”

But Marcus just shook his head. “No, who has Laurent been hired by?” Quickly he moved from behind his desk to his bedchamber door. Throwing it open, he went immediately to the wardrobe, started pulling out his most worn, most common clothes.

“What are you doing?” Byrne asked as he hobbled in behind his brother.

“Going back to the beginning,” Marcus answered as he struggled to pull on a pair of serviceable brown trousers. “Johnny Dicks had a friend. He said she was with him the night he acquired the list. She might know something.”

“And you haven’t questioned her yet?” Byrne asked incredulously.

“She disappeared when Johnny Dicks was killed. I went to the pub—the Bull and Whisker—but Marty Wilkins—you remember him, from the Seventeenth?—he said the girl—Meggie, I believe—went into hiding when she heard about Johnny. No one I’d talked to had seen her. Now that some time has passed”—Marcus went about pulling on his boots—“maybe I can get a different answer.”

“No.” Byrne said softly.

“What?”

“You’re not going.” Byrne replied.

“I feel fine,” Marcus replied. “In fact, if you keep me cooped up in here much longer, I’ll go mad.”

“Raise your arm over your head.” Byrne commanded.

Marcus obliged him, but not without forcing himself to hide a wince of pain.

“You may feel right enough, but you don’t think your face is already recognized in the Bull and Whisker? I’ll go track Meggie down.”

“But Byrne—” Marcus said. He was cut short by his brother’s pleading look.

“Let me do this, please!” Byrne asked him, pleaded with his eyes. “It’s one thing I can do.”

Marcus paused in his movements. All this time, he had never considered that Byrne might feel marginalized by his actions.

For in the intervening year, not only had Byrne moved away from Marcus, began holding himself in, became distant, but Marcus realized that he had moved away, too. He was running his own investigation, had been pursuing it single-mindedly. The fraternity that had marked their relationship the whole of their lives had suffered a rift. Their previous roles had been abandoned, and maybe his brother was lost without it.

“Maybe you’re right,” Marcus conceded. “I have a pile of papers to sort through; I could use a nap. Besides, you’re the Blue Raven. You’re the one who has to save the day.”

Byrne nodded. He turned to the door, looked out into the study to the pile of work on Marcus’s desk. It was a reasonable excuse, the pile of papers. It would do.

“I’ll get a change of clothes,” Byrne replied and moved to where he had stowed his valise in Marcus’s wardrobe.

“I’ll start . . . writing a letter,” Marcus replied, and moved to the next room to his desk.

He sat down, took a piece of fresh paper in hand, and laid it in front of him. After a moment, Byrne yelled through the open door.

“Is it to Mrs. Benning?” Byrne asked across the rooms.

“No. Why?” Marcus inquired.

“I just thought,” Byrne said as he emerged from the bedroom, cloaked in dirty trousers, muddy boots, and a patch-worn great-coat, his posture stooped and gnarled. He completed the picture with a brown bottle in his hand and a dusty cap that covered his dark hair and eyes. “You said she was to be no longer involved, correct?”

Marcus’s eyebrow shot up.

“Does she know it?” he asked.

Phillippa entered Worth House nearly shaking.

Was he here? It had been almost a full week now, and she hadn’t heard from him. She had no way of knowing if he had survived his wound or succumbed to it, and she had no way of inquiring. She could only hope that when Mariah issued her usual invitation to one of her dinner parties that Marcus would be there, too.

He must have recovered by now. He must have. But what if the fever had taken hold and weakened his body? What if . . . No, she would not allow herself to think that way, she scolded herself as she crossed the threshold with Totty, Nora, and Nora’s mother at her side, a bright and easy smile painted on her lips.

“Phillippa, why are we here?” Nora inquired in a low voice.

“Because one has to eat dinner somewhere,” Phillippa replied serenely. “Besides, I’ve grown fond of Lady Worth.”

“I know that her charity is your new pet project, but Lady Worth—ugh. I don’t know how you can stand it.”

“Now, now, that is unkind,” Phillippa scolded, prompting Lady De Regis to give her leading daughter a look of reproval as well. “I think you’ll find Lady Worth’s manners without fault.” And better than yours, Phillippa thought, but on that subject she kept her mouth shut.

“I trust there will be young gentlemen here for my Nora,” Lady De Regis said, adding her quota to the day’s conversation.

“Oh yes,” Totty piped up, “if nothing else, Lord Worth has two brothers, both unmarried.”

“Yes, a gimp and a bookish string bean who hangs after Phillippa’s every word,” Nora grumbled.

“Nora!” Phillippa exclaimed. She took her friend by the arm, as she would a child. When did Nora became so biting? And when had it happened that she herself stopped cultivating such wit?

“Oh, come on, Philly,” Nora replied. “When did you become such a stick-in-the-mud? A month ago you would have said the exact same thing.”

It was true. She was becoming a stick-in-the-mud. And somehow she didn’t mind it.

It must have been when she began her partnership with Marcus. More than a partnership, really . . . He confided in her things no one else was privy to, like his aversion to firearms and hair-cuts, and he was unfailingly kind and gentle. How his sense of chivalry and his sense of humor were intertwined. And he knew more about her than she had ever let anyone else know. He wasn’t just her partner in crime.

He was her friend.

And she was near to tears for word of that friend’s good health.

But she would be damned if she let it show, she chastised herself as she was greeted warmly by Mariah upon entering the drawing room.

“Phillippa!” Mariah cried. “How lovely to see you!”

Phillippa was pleased to note that Mariah had taken her advice against plum-colored lace and instead wore a gown in warm russet tones.

“Mariah,” she replied, kissing her hostess on the cheek. “I’ve brought some friends for you to sway to your cause. May I introduce Lady De Regis and her daughter Nora? And of course you know Mrs. Tottendale.”

Curtsies were exchanged, murmured pleasantries. Phillippa could not help but scan the room, looking for a tall form, a happy smile, a reflection of spectacles. But, even as the room was far more crowded than at Phillippa’s first dinner party, due to Mariah’s charity being the latest cause célèbre, it did not contain the one single person Phillippa had hoped to seek out.

As if she could hear Phillippa’s thoughts, Lady De Regis gave them voice. “I understand you have some brothers-in-law, Lady Worth.” Lady De Regis did not often feel it necessary to hide her intentions—a husband for her daughter—through vague speech. She and Lady Worth would get on well. “Are they here this evening?” she continued, scanning the room.

“I’m afraid not,” Mariah answered. “Young men, you know, I can hardly nail them down for a weekly family supper.”

“They’re . . . they’re not here?” Phillippa asked somewhat dazed. “Either of them?”

Mariah regarded Phillippa somewhat queerly. “Unfortunately not. I haven’t seen Marcus since before last weekend. Byrne we managed to get to dinner once, but other than that . . .”

Realizing they stood with company, Phillippa shot Totty a look, silently begging assistance.

Totty took up her assignment with ease, taking Lady De Regis by the arm and pointing out that there were refreshments available. Nora, of course, had already flitted to a group of gentlemen on the other side of the room. If none of her beaux were here, it seemed that she would practice on their fathers.

“Mariah,” Phillippa began, then cleared her throat, and began again. “I have not seen Marcus in the past week, either.”

“Really?” Mariah asked, alarmed. “But I beg your pardon, I was given the impression that he was . . . in your company, at least some of the time.”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that Marcus and I have become friends. I doubt he’d go out of town without you hearing of it.”

“I agree. And I do not doubt his affection for you. Far from it.”

Phillippa blushed at such frank speaking from Mariah, but her purpose was too important to waste the conversation on Mariah’s hopes. “I do hope Marcus—and of course Byrne—are not in any trouble,” Phillippa posited hesitantly.

Mariah looked around the room and then, taking Phillippa by the arm, gently guided her to a far corner. “Marcus and Byrne were both in the army during the war, as I’m sure you know,” she said, and Phillippa nodded. “There were great gaps of time when we didn’t hear from them at all. What Graham and I decided was that no news was good news. Perhaps Marcus has retained some of his secretive ways. That’s all.”

Phillippa took a moment to digest this. “No news is good news,” she repeated.

“Precisely,” Mariah answered with a smile false enough so Phillippa could feel it. “I’m sure they’re fine. However, if you felt it necessary to write him, or send someone round to check on him, I would be more than happy to give you Marcus’s address.”

“Yes,” Phillippa replied instantly, “I could go and—I mean, I could
send
a servant to go and check on him.”

Then as the bell rang for supper, both women, their hearts beating rapidly, were escorted to the dining room.

It was arduous sitting through another of Lady Worth’s charity dinners, but for an entirely different reason this time. Mariah acquitted herself nicely, having taken several cues from Phillippa over the intervening weeks on ladylike persuasion versus lecturing. She only mentioned Jackie, Jeffy, etc., once, and that was when asked how her pupils got on at the school. No, Phillippa was counting the minutes to the supper’s end so she could execute her escape.

Which she did, once the ladies excused themselves with all possible grace.

She could not feign illness, for that would draw scrutiny to Mariah’s excellently prepared food. Nor could she pretend to rip her skirt, because, quite honestly, how many times was she going to use that excuse?

No, instead she utilized a butler, a small card, and a pencil.

Instructing the butler to hand the card to Mariah in exactly five minutes, she allowed herself to sink into conversation with Mrs. Hurston, who had for once left the godforsaken turban at home. Although, now that Phillippa saw Mrs. Hurston’s uncovered head, she saw the use in such an object. If a product of age was that your hair thinned a bit, Mrs. Hurston was a hundred and forty. The wisps that existed were puffed and curled as much as possible, but in the future maybe Phillippa would be less exacting as to an older lady’s head covering.

In precisely five minutes, Mariah was handed the card, and after scanning it, she quickly exclaimed, “Oh no!”

All heads turned her way. “Phillippa, my dear, I’m afraid there has been an incident at your home.”

“At my home?” Phillippa quickly took the piece of paper.