Revealed (42 page)

Hours passed, and Phillippa drifted to sleep easily, content. Marcus, meanwhile, lay awake, his mind at odds with itself.

On the one side, his heart soared at having the sleeping form of Phillippa Benning in his arms. Curled into a ball beside him, her juts and hollows fitted perfectly against his. She was what he had been dreaming about for weeks, and the reality was better than he could have ever imagined. He wanted to keep her there forever.

But the other part of his brain, the small, niggling conscience, knew that it would not keep her safe.

There was still the specter of danger that lurked outside the door. If Laurent and his associates knew Marcus was hunting him, then having Phillippa in his life meant she was an easy target.

And there was still the small notion of the lie—little really, insubstantial—that he had allowed her to believe him to be the Blue Raven.

Marcus eased his body away from hers, fought his guilt as she gave a small whimper in her sleep. He found his trousers in the dark and pulled them on. He needed to think, and he wasn’t going to do that if he were lying next to Phillippa’s soft, naked form.

He moved quietly into the study, easing the bedroom door shut behind him. Looking around the room, his eyes immediately fell on the cloak and dressing robe on the floor, rushing his mind back to how she had crossed the room and kissed him with such passion.

Well, he wasn’t going to get any thinking done with those there either.

He grabbed his robe and shrugged it on, then gingerly took Phillippa’s dark velvet cloak, folded it, and hung it behind the door, next to his hat. They looked nice together, he decided. They looked as if they belonged.

Marcus stoked up the dying fire, throwing some warmth into the room as the door opened behind him and, much to his surprise, Byrne entered, soaked to the skin and smiling.

“It is nasty weather out, brother,” Byrne proclaimed as he stomped into the room, ridding his boots of watery mud.

“Shh!” Marcus said, his eyes flicking automatically to the bedchamber door.

“Why? Marcus, I have such news!” Byrne said as he rid himself of his wet cloak, resting it to dry on the fire grate.

“And I have, er, neighbors,” Marcus replied, as he glanced quickly to the mantel clock above the hearth. “Its three o’clock in the morning.”

“I know, I didn’t expect to be successful so quickly either,” Byrne slapped Marcus on the shoulder, causing him to grunt in pain. “Oh, sorry, forgot.” Byrne gave him a quick grin, his enthusiasm unabated.

“You certainly seem in a good mood,” Marcus drawled. He did seem rather bright-eyed and energetic, Marcus observed. The opiates his brother had developed a weakening fondness for tended to make him lazy, surly.

“I am. My leg hurts like the devil, though, so I’ll make this short. When you’re right, you’re right, Marcus, that’s all.”

Excellent. Word games from a dripping-wet, pain-riddled, full-of-life drug addict. “What was I right about now?”

“That I, as the Blue Raven, would save the day,” Byrne cheered. “I found Meggie.”

That had Marcus sitting up straight. “You did? How?”

“It wasn’t too difficult. All I did was drop a word in one person’s ear, a coin in the hand of another. I told them I’d been her customer before, and that she pleased me. She’d been long enough in hiding, without money, that she was willing to service almost anyone.”

“Charming. What did she say?”

Byrne leaned forward in his chair. “She not only saw the Frenchy, as she and Johnny Dicks called him, but she followed him, picked his pocket for the list.”

Marcus leaned forward, too. “She could tell us which way he went.”

“Better—Meggie said he got into a carriage with a crest on it. She said she’d be able to point it out if she saw it again.”

Marcus was on his feet, pacing now. “She can’t stay in Whitechapel. He found and killed Johnny Dicks; he’ll find her, now that she came out of hiding to meet with you.”

“Be calm, I’ve already hidden her again.” Byrne replied, rolling his cane between his hands. The pain in his leg must be getting acute, Marcus knew. “I took her to Graham’s. Mrs. Riddle, the housekeeper, always had a soft spot for me. Meggie said she’d done scullery work before, so she should be safe enough there, as long as she obeys my orders to not leave the house. I told you I could do this.” Byrne grinned. “One of the Blue Raven’s most formidable talents.”

Marcus paced for a moment, considering the information given.

“We’ll take her to the park tomorrow, closed carriage, and we’ll see if she spies the crest,” Byrne concluded, as his attention was caught by something on the floor.

“Its Sterling’s crest; it has to be,” Marcus said, rubbing his temples. “If she can confirm that, we may not have to wait until the Gold Ball to discover the next piece of the puzzle. We can go straight to Fieldstone. We won’t have to use Phillippa and continue this ridiculous charade any longer, we can—what is it?” Marcus said as he noticed that Byrne’s gaze was attuned to an object on the ground, glinting in the firelight. He leaned down and picked it up.

A hairpin.

Marcus held his breath, as Byrne turned the little twist of metal over and over again in his hand.

“Whose is this?” Byrne asked, and then, with a flick of a glance to the door, where Marcus had hung Phillippa’s dark velvet cloak, “And whose is that?”

“They’re mine,” Phillippa said, her voice cool and clear from the bedchamber doorway.

Phillippa had awoken only a few minutes after Marcus had left the room. For a moment, she was confused as to her whereabouts, but then the memories flooded back, bringing blood to her cheeks. She lifted her head, confirmed that she was alone. But was she abandoned? No, she decided, she could hear voices from the room beyond.

Quickly she buried her face in the pillow again. Oh, the things they’d done! The things
she’d
done. Had she really been so wanton? So . . . brave? So open to a man?

But it wasn’t any man. It was Marcus Worth. And she had a feeling that the other voice she heard in the room beyond was his brother Byrne.

Even though both she and Marcus were grown, independent adults, Phillippa’s experience with trysts was minimal enough that she would still be deeply embarrassed to be caught in such an . . . indecorous state by a third party, let alone his brother. Therefore, she untwined herself from the sheets with all possible speed and set about throwing on her gown, which was puddled on the floor.

Her stockings were more difficult to find, as Marcus had thrown them across the room. She found the first by the foot of the bed, its ribbon still in its loops. The other she eventually found right beside the door.

Bending down to pick it up, she paused in her movements when, quite by accident, her ear aligned with the keyhole, and she could hear the brothers perfectly.

“What was I right about now?” Marcus said, clearly impatient.

“That I, as the Blue Raven, would save the day,” Byrne’s voice said with glee.

Phillippa remained crouched, her ear perked and waiting. They started talking about some girl named Meggie, a pickpocket who would help them track down Laurent—but Phillippa didn’t care about any of that. All she could think was that Marcus did not correct him. Surely Byrne was only pretending, surely . . .

But then, he said it again.

“I told you I could do this—one of the Blue Raven’s most formidable talents.”

And then Phillippa’s stomach dropped. Her mind raced back to their first encounters. In the sarcophagus, she’d heard him addressed as the Blue Raven—or did she? When she’d first told him what she “knew,” he’d denied it, true, but then he let her go on believing it . . . and he agreed to their bargain. He agreed to be revealed as the Blue Raven at the Benning Ball. The world swam before her, and she didn’t even realize she was twisting the stocking in her hand to the point of tearing it.

Slowly, she rose. Slowly, she turned the knob of the door, opened it the barest crack.

“We won’t have to use Phillippa and continue this ridiculous charade . . .” she heard Marcus say as he paced, his back to her. If Phillippa had felt tears forming behind her eyes, that one sentence dried them. She was part of a ridiculous charade, was she? Well, no longer.

She saw Byrne pick up one of her hairpins. Her cue to throw the door open wide.

“And whose is that?” he asked, indicating her cloak, hanging next to Marcus’s hat.

“They’re mine,” she answered, barefooted, hair a tumbling mess, only one stocking on, but her head held high.

She walked right past stone-faced Marcus and extended her hand to Byrne.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Mrs. Benning. You must be the Blue Raven.”

“
I
’M correct, am I not?” Phillippa said, her voice clear, passionless. Byrne raised his eyebrows at Marcus, as if asking what to do. Marcus couldn’t respond. He had run out of answers.

Phillippa’s gaze never strayed from Byrne’s face, her hand remained outstretched, waiting.

“Yes,” Marcus finally replied, “he is.”

Phillippa dropped her hand, turned around, faced Marcus.

“Not you.”

Marcus searched her face, found no sympathy, no recourse there. “Not me,” he replied.

The room held silent, as time stretched on with each tick of the mantel clock. Byrne stood up and wordlessly excused himself from the room.

“I have to go,” she finally said and brushed past him again, into the bedroom. He followed her, watched as she retrieved her shoes from the side of the bed.

“I would remind you that you approached me,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I told you more than once that I was not who you thought I was.”

“That,” she huffed as she slipped the shoes on her feet, “is readily apparent now.”

“Phillippa,” he approached her now, took her gently by the arm. “It can’t be that important, can it?”

But Phillippa wrenched her arm free. “What do you know about what’s important to me? You lied to me. You used me.”

“As if your intentions toward me were good and pure,” he retorted.

“I
never
lied to you. I never involved you in some ‘ridiculous charade,’ ” she retorted, marching past him into the study, retrieving her cloak.

“Oh, really? You never paraded me down Bond Street, treating me like your new pet?” he followed her, maneuvered so his back was to the main doors, effectively blocking her from leaving.

“That was part of
your
plan, not mine,” she shot back, her prideful chin going up.

“You never paid me attention to make your beloved Broughton jealous?” Marcus sneered. “Face it, Phillippa, your entire life is a ridiculous charade.”

Marcus knew that in that moment he had gone too far. He knew it before he felt the hard crack of her palm against his face. And he knew, too, that he deserved this slap that she had held in account. He deserved her scorn and the tears that he saw threatening to fall on her cheek.

“You don’t come within one hundred feet of me, understood? You see me walking down the street, you turn and walk the other way.” She shook angrily.

“If only for your own protection, yes,” he answered, his hand massaging his stinging cheek. “But Phillippa, you have to know the truth—” But she shook her head.

“The truth is, you entered our bargain under false pretenses,” she said, her voice wobbling. “And everything . . . everything that came after is false because of it.”

“No,” Marcus replied softly. “Everything that came after is the truest thing in the world. Because it’s us.” He lowered his hand, took her naked one—she hadn’t been able to locate her gloves. “Phillippa, it’s me. It’s just me.”

She withdrew her hand from his, her eyes shooting to his face. “That, Mr. Worth, seems to be the problem.”

And with that, she slipped past him and out the door.

Marcus didn’t know how long he stood there, alone, frozen. He just kept staring at the spot where Phillippa had stood before she maneuvered past him, an apparition now. His skin went cold, his eyes hard. She was gone. His mind knew it; his heart didn’t want to accept it. But the memory of her cruel parting shot turned his vision black, and he threw a fist into the door, causing a spindly crunch as the thin pine of the door gave way, beginning to crack.

“Ow!” he grunted, stepping back from the door, shaking his hand free of the pain.

All right, so, hitting a solid object with his fist was not a solution. But for a single moment, it wasn’t his heart that was hurting. He turned around, examined the room. The piles of balled-up paper on the floor, a dozen attempts at writing the letter that would remove Phillippa from his life. “Thank you for your assistance,” they said. Ruthlessly, he began picking up those thanks and throwing them into the grate. If he’d wanted to get rid of her, well, he more than succeeded, and it was without formality or sentiment.